


Poor Wayfaring Stranger

by Desiree_Harding



Series: My Way is Rough and Steep [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is their struggling foster kid, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, F/M, Family Fluff, Foster Care, George Washington is a senator, Martha is his wife, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Some angst but nothing too scary, oh shit so many more feelings than originally anticipated, that's pretty much it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desiree_Harding/pseuds/Desiree_Harding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George and Martha have always wanted children, but their busy lives and difficult past have always made it an impossibility. When they have he opportunity to be foster parents to Alexander Hamilton, they might just find what they've been missing all these years.</p>
<p>Alexander Hamilton has been lost ever since his mother died and he was placed in the foster system. Now, with the system about to give up on him, Senator Washington and his wife might be his last chance at a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. George

**Author's Note:**

> A Quick Note: I have researched the foster system and have bent the rules for how things work slightly for plot purposes. This is not the typical foster experience, so take it with a grain of salt.  
> Also the first president of the U.S. was Christopher Jackson in this, so it's Jackson, D.C. I'm not sorry.
> 
> With that, let's begin!

When Martha approached George with the idea to become foster parents, it was like they had suddenly caught sight of land after being lost at sea for their whole lives. It had seemed perfect at the time: a way to be parents, just like they had always wanted. A way to raise children without dredging up Martha’s bad memories, without stepping outside of George’s comfort zone. A way to provide a loving home to the young people who needed it most. It was perfect, it was a dream come true, and the couple was more than excited to start the process.

  
George took personal days off from his work in the capital so that he and Martha could meet with the social workers for the screening interviews. On one Saturday two of them fixed up a couple of rooms in the house for their foster children to stay in once they received placements. Martha spent countless hours with paperwork spread out across the kitchen table. Screening after screening, meeting upon meeting, until they were finally approved to foster. And then all that was left was to wait.

  
So they waited.

  
And waited.

  
And waited.

  
And no calls came. No placements, no children, nothing. After almost a year of it, Martha called Social Services. George came home to his wife nearly in tears one Friday night. Their home was approved but no placements would come. The people at social services, she told him, thought that their situation was influenced too heavily by George’s political career. That thrusting a young child in need into the home of a high-profile senator was never going to work. That there were other, more suitable homes for these children, and that they weren’t needed. George had apologized to Martha profusely that night, feeling responsible for all of their misfortune, and she had forgiven him and blamed herself, and he had forgiven her, and so on and so forth until they were curled into each other like they hadn’t been in years. They tried to sleep. And most of all, they tried not to be crushed under the weight of their disappointment.

  
Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, George had thought. Maybe it was fate. But a sign from the gods wouldn’t keep the hurt from creeping in, that endless hurt that comes with a dream that seems so close and then is snatched away suddenly, and leaves you a little lonelier and emptier than you were before.

  
They kept busy. George’s responsibilities in the capital increased. He ran for reelection to the Senate. He won. Martha dove into activism, charity work, and more. She used George’s prominence to speak out. Their wish for children slipped, little by little, to the corners of their lives, relegated to only late-night wistful conversations between their pillows and sleepy reminiscing over Sunday coffee. They weren’t satisfied and they could both feel it. That most human of emotions, the feeling of “what if” dangled constantly over their heads. But they kept busy. George slowly let go of that dream, contented himself to do what he could for the youth of America through his work in the government, allowed himself to be coerced into being on this committee or that, met with White House aides who lobbied for his vote one way or another.

  
He kept busy. They kept busy. They were fine.

  
Until one night, A Friday in July, when George came home from a long week of work in D.C. with a heavy briefcase and shoulders that bent under the weight of the world, and heard that his Martha was on the phone.

  
“Yes?” His wife’s voice floated through the house as George made his way to his study to put down his briefcase and drape his jacket over the back of his chair, before walking into the kitchen where pasta was simmering on the stove, forgotten, as Martha bent over the counter, scribbling something down on a legal pad.

  
“Mhmm,” She looked at George, gave him a tight-lipped smile and blew a quick kiss before turning her attention back to the phone. George went to tend to the dinner, found the pasta nearly overcooked, turned off the burner, and started hunting for the colander. “Tomorrow? One moment, my husband just got home from work, I can ask him if you’ll give me just one second. George?” Her voice sharp, quick, the kind of tone George knew from over a decade of marriage was to have attention paid it. He looked up immediately.

  
“Tomorrow afternoon,” she said hurriedly, her hand over the speaker. She still insisted on having a home phone and answering machine rather than operate through her cell phone all the time. “Can you make yourself available for a meeting? It’s important.”

  
“I have a lot of work to look over before Monday, but I can manage tomorrow afternoon.” He knew better than to argue with Martha when she was like this, and he didn’t have so much work that he couldn’t take off one afternoon for something else. Or, even if he did, he wouldn’t tell her. He already felt guilty for leaving his wife alone for such extended periods of time, for the way his job seemed to consume his every waking moment these days. He could give her a Saturday at least. At least he could give her that.

  
Martha turned back to the phone. “Yes, we can make that work. Mhmm. And you have our address on file?” That piqued George’s interest. On file? Martha made it sound like a business meeting, but then why would their address be involved? They almost never had visitors to Mount Vernon. It was their private sanctuary, it had been in George’s family for generations. On rare occasions they had hosted an event or two there during election season, but George was a private man, and Martha never brought any of her charity work into their home. It was an agreement in their marriage, spoken long ago with no need to be repeated since, that Mount Vernon would stay their private spot. The one place they could relax and just be George and Martha, not the senator and his wife.

  
So what could possibly be so important that they had to meet at their home instead of taking it somewhere public?

  
“Good. We’ll see you tomorrow. Yes. Good evening. Thank you.” Martha hung up the phone, sighing and leaning against the counter, bringing a hand to her eyes.

  
“What was that about?” George inquired as he drained the pasta. Martha didn’t answer for a moment, and he began to worry. “Martha?” He left the food in the sink, dinner forgotten in favor of his wife. “What’s going on?”

  
Martha brought her hand down from her face and looked directly into George’s eyes.

  
“George,” she began, and he could see her excitement mounting, spreading into her eyes and all over her face. “That was a call from a woman named Kitty Livingston. She’s with New York Social Services. She says she has a potential foster placement for us.”

  
It was like he had been slapped in the face. A foster placement. God, he should have guessed, but it had been so long since fostering had even seemed an option, they had all but written it off, and then suddenly, just out of nowhere, their whole world could be changed. A foster placement. A child in their house, not just the two of them anymore. Suddenly, the one thing they felt had been missing from their lives was within their grasp. The chance to be a family.

  
And then he remembered his work.

  
How could he be a father now? He and Martha thought he had been busy years ago when they applied to be foster parents, but it was nothing compared to what he had on his plate now. He was gone from home every day, sometimes he didn’t even make it home on the weekends, and Martha was more swamped now than she had ever been with her charity work. Hell, George already had people approaching him about a reelection campaign when his term didn’t end for another three years. And as a Virginian, the democratic party was leaning on him heavily for bipartisan leadership. There had even been whispers around his office about a potential presidential run and to add a child to the mix… good God.

  
“Martha,” he whispered, “we can’t.”

  
He hated to see the way his wife’s face fell at his words, her expression flashing first through surprise, then disappointment, followed by annoyance and outright anger. She turned away from him in a flash, moving across the room to collect herself before looking at him again, her face set, determined.

  
“I thought you’d be excited,” her tone was clipped, short, and George tried to backpedal, to take some of the harshness out of his words.

  
“Martha…” he approached her slowly, hands up, placating, “you know how busy I’ve been with work recently. It’s only going to get worse.” Anger flashed through her eyes again, blazing, hot, and George tried a different approach. “Martha, it’s not that I don’t want this, I do, you know I do.” He took a deep breath, his own disappointment settling deep into his bones, that endless weariness creeping back. “I’m just worried about the time commitment, dear. I don’t want to do this halfway, and you know how much work I have to do in the capital on a daily basis.” He sighed, ran his hand over his head, “All I’m saying is that I don’t know if we can realistically handle this right now.”

  
Martha’s eyes flashed with anger and her voice was cold as and impersonal as stone when she relied, “perhaps you could occasionally make time for your family rather than putting those ridiculous politicians first all the time.” She sighed, frustrated, and pushed past him to get some pasta, long since gone cold and congealed. “Sometimes I don’t think I even know you anymore, George,” she murmured, her voice rough now, harsh, hurting, “You spend every day down there in that damn city and every weekend locked up in the study- don’t think I don’t notice how much more work you bring home than you used to- and- and I thought you cared about this, George, I thought this could be our chance, I-” she made a noise of frustration and slammed the pasta spoon down on the counter. “This damn stuff isn’t even edible,” she huffed, and the angry silence hung long and heavy in the room before she brought one hand to her face and her shoulders shook with barely suppressed sobs.

  
George’s heart broke at that. It had been a long road for her, for the two of them, no one knew it better than he did. He knew she was lonely when he didn't come home; he knew how much she loathed politics and diplomacy, the contempt she held for Congress's "all talk and no action" approach. Where did he get to go around pulling down his wife like that when she had finally found something she was really looking forward to? How was that fair? How was it right?

  
He moved back around to the other side of the counter , until he stood behind his wife, before gently turning her to face him and wrapping his arms around her.  
“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered, “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You’re right to be excited. This is wonderful news, we've wanted this for a long time and I shouldn’t have immediately jumped to a negative conclusion. I’m sorry.” George ran his hand over his wife’s back, up and down, until he felt her hiccuping sobs come to a stop and their breathing synchronized.

  
He hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up so she could look right into his eyes, something he used to do back when they were both young and seeing each other for the first time. The couple traded a tired, half-smile, and George was suddenly and vividly aware of all the change that they had both gone through over all the years since they met. The Martha before him was not quite the same fiery young woman he knew in school, she was tired now, softer and more rounded at the edges, but her spirit was there.

  
They were both different, but they would make it. They’d made it this far.

  
“How about we forget about this,” he cocked his head towards the disastrous excuse for dinner in the sink next to them, “and move into the den and order a pizza, and then you can tell me all of the details about this meeting we’re supposed to be having tomorrow.”

  
Martha’s smile brightened and George swore he would do anything he could to keep it that way.

  
“You, George Washington,” she teased, poking him in the chest, “are supposed to be on a diet.”

  
“Not tonight,” he replied, pulling her close and pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. “Tonight we have something to celebrate.”


	2. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Washingtons are introduced to Alexander Hamilton.

Kitty Livingston was a confident, able woman with a look about her of someone who had born witness to entirely too much tragedy in her young life, yet still had the audacity to wake up every day and face the world with a smile. That was the best way to describe her, in George's mind. Audacious. She wore a blazer and pants and high heels so sharp they could kill a man. She arrived on the Washington estate at precisely one o'clock with a sharp knock on the front door and briefcase in hand. And when George opened the door and saw her for the first time, he didn't know whether to feel reassured or terrified, for here was a woman in whom Martha would find either a kindred spirit or a mortal enemy; there would be no in between. 

Kitty greeted the both of them with a firm handshake and a tight smile, and George thought that this was a woman who could hold her own with any of his colleagues in DC.

"Senator and Mrs. Washington," she began, "thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. I know how busy the both of you must be."

"It's our pleasure, Ms. Livingston," Martha replied, looping one arm around the younger woman's back and leading her into the house with that disarming charm that she'd developed from a lifetime of southern living. George chuckled to himself. Kindred spirit it was, then. "Can I offer you something to drink, coffee? Water?" He went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water for each of them, then followed the other women into the living room, where he and Martha settled onto one couch, and Kitty the opposite one.

"Ms. Livingston, you said last night you're with New York Social Services?" George asked, hoping to clear up the biggest questions that he and Martha had after Kitty's late call the night before. Now, looking at the her, unmistakably exhausted and wearing thin underneath her optimistic front, he knew that she was dealing with something difficult, was at her wit's end. Why else would a social worker from New York take an emergency flight to Virginia to meet with a foster couple there? Last night, he and Martha had been caught up in the novelty and excitement of finally having this opportunity. Now George could tell that something wasn't right.

He took Martha's hand. She squeezed. They were both nervous.

Kitty took a long drink of water before she answered. 

"Yes, Senator." She took a deep breath before continuing, seeming to steel her courage. "As you know, normally the two of you would only be fostering children and youth from within the state of Virginia, however, I'm here with a... special case." She opened her briefcase, pulling from it a thick manila folder and sliding it across the table to George and Martha. Martha picked it up and opened it, as Kitty spoke.

"These are the files for your potential foster placement, Alexander."

George looked at the file, at the picture of the boy with olive skin, shoulder-length black hair, and dark eyes, and began to read.

_Alexander Hamilton. Age: 14. Sex: Male. Mother: Rachel Faucette, deceased. Father: James A. Hamilton, whereabouts unknown._

"Alexander and his parents immigrated from the Caribbean when he was six years old," Kitty spoke while they continued to look over Alexander's file, "he's lived in New York ever since. Four years ago, his father, James Hamilton, abandoned Alexander and his mother and hasn't been seen since. His mother died two years ago of illness. We tried to track down Alexander's father but we could find no information on him or where he went after he left his family. Alexander has been in the foster system for nearly two years now."

George couldn't stop looking at Alexander's picture, is heart aching as he heard Kitty extol the details of the boy's past. It always hurt to hear stories like Alexander's; over the years, Martha had told him plenty, most related to the charity work she was doing. But Alexander's picture... the boy looked so tired, so defeated. If Kitty was the kind of woman who remained hopeful even in the face of all the tragedy she saw on a daily basis, then Alexander looked like someone who had forgotten what hope felt like. 

"Ms. Livingston," Martha interrupted his train of thought, "You said Alexander was a special case? Why is that?"

Kitty sighed. "In those two years that Alexander has been in the foster system, he's been placed in and removed from eleven foster homes."

"Eleven?" George couldn't contain his surprise at that. How could he have been placed in so many?

"The average number of foster homes during a child's entire stay in the system," and damn if Kitty's voice doesn't sound defeated when she says it, "is three."

It hit George like a punch in the gut. The feeling he's had for the whole meeting thus far, the feeling of a catch to this whole arrangement hanging over his and Martha's head came crashing down abruptly, crushing, suffocating. Eleven homes. What could possibly cause a child to be placed in eleven homes over the course of two years?

Martha was, as ever, on the same wavelength that he was. "Why has he been placed in so many homes?" she asked, alarmed.

Kitty sighed again, ran a hand over her hair. "He's... had difficulty adjusting to life in the foster system. He gets into fights at school. His families tell me he can't get along with the other children in the homes, he's aggressive and disrespectful, he won't listen. He's already tried running away from several of his homes, sometimes repeated episodes per home. Around me he's quiet, almost apathetic, but when he's placed in a foster home- I can't observe him there of course, so most of the information we get is secondhand from the families- but when he gets into a home, it's like something goes off inside of him."

Martha laced her fingers back through George's and gripped his hand, hard. They exchanged a look. Kitty seemed to understand and looked away, giving the couple a moment to collect themselves. George's mind was going a mile a minute. Alexander Hamilton. From what they heard, it seemed like he needed more help than they anticipated. He had known that bringing a foster child into their home would be difficult, but this... this was too much.

"Martha..." he trailed off, torn, breaking apart.

"I know," she whispered in response, her eyes searching his. They wanted it so badly, but how could they manage  _this_?

"Senator and Mrs. Washington, if I may," Kitty interjected. They both turned back to her, their hands still intertwined between them. "I know this is a lot to take in, but and I have to tell you," she took a deep breath, and she looked so determined; George could see her passion for her job, for these children. It was written all over her face and woven into her posture and her very breath. "I believe," she said, "that Alexander is not the problem that everyone seems to believe he is. In all of my years of social work, I have never seen a child so intelligent. Alexander may have difficulty with interactions among his peers and his families, but he excels in school when he's been given the opportunity to go. He's... brilliant. I've never seen anything like it."

"You said that he was very quiet around you," George interjected, questioning.

"He is," Kitty confirmed, nodding, "but he's constantly writing; I don't think I've ever seen him without a notebook in his hand. I can see in him an incredible depth." She began to speak more emphatically then, her professional facade cracking and becoming almost desperate. "Senator, I believe that all Alexander needs is someone who will take him seriously. He needs a fresh start, someone who believes in him, someone who doesn't take him into their home only expecting him to be a burden. He's been told for over a year now that he's difficult, inconvenient, even dangerous." Kitty was talking very fast now, leaning in, her voice practically begging them to listen,

"Please, Senator and Mrs. Washington, Social Services is ready to just give up on him. They're ready to write him off as too difficult, put him into a community home and forget about him. I had to get special permission to come here and see you, because I've been told that if I can't find a suitable placement for Alexander this time around, they're going to put him into essentially an orphanage. He'll never get the attention he needs there. I  _cannot_ allow this boy to just waste away in one of those places, Mr. and Mrs. Washington. I can only do so much for Alexander, but I can't find a single family in the New York system who will take him, given his history. Please," she begged, "all he needs is a chance. If he moves here, away form his past and all his old, he can start over and have a new life. A better one. You can give him that. Just give him a fighting chance. Please. I know you can help him."

George and Martha shared a look and George could tell just how troubled they both were. He wanted to help Alexander. God, he really did, but with all that Kitty had told them during the meeting it seemed nearly impossible. Giving him the attention he needed? George was hardly ever home; how could he give Alexander the attention he needed if he never even saw him? He couldn't just put all the responsibility on Martha, nor did he want to. And a boy who was constantly getting into fights and trying to run away from home would draw attention so much attention from the press; George was already sure that they'd hear about his and Martha's fostering situation and try to make a story out of it, regardless of Alexander's actions. How could he and Martha do this now? It was too much, he decided. It was just too much.

"Ms. Livingston," he sighed, turning back to the now openly desperate woman sitting on the couch opposite. "I'm not sure that, at this time, with the press he'll be exposed to, having Alexander stay with us is a viable option. I'm afraid that we're both just too busy to give him, as you say, the attention he needs."

Kitty's shoulders slumped a that, and she ran a hand across her face, seemingly trying to collect herself. "I understand," she murmured quietly, "Thank you- 

"Kitty." And that was Martha, coming out in force with her no-nonsense, indisputable decision voice. "We'll consider it. We may need a few days' time, but we _will_ consider it and we _will_ get back to you with our decision on the matter. George is right," she added, shooting George a quick look and squeezing his hand, "it will be difficult if we do take Alexander in, but we will take a few days to consider it anyway, just to be sure."

Kitty lit up just as suddenly as she had become discouraged. "You- you will?" she asked, breathless. "Oh thank you so much, Senator and Mrs. Washington, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that. Thank you." She checked her watch. "I have a flight back to New York tonight, so I need to make my way back into the city, but thank you so much again for making time to meet with me, and thank you for considering this as an option." She left the house in a whirlwind as both she and Martha made their way to the front door, George trailing behind, Kitty placing copies of Alexander's files in Martha's hand so they could look them over again, and so on, until it was just George and Martha again, in the foyer of their big, silent, empty house, Martha's back to the door and facing George, who was looking right back into her eyes.

It was a long silence before wither of them spoke, and a short conversation once the silence was broken. 

"George," Martha began, her voice pleading-

"No. I can't talk about this now. I have too work much to do."

He went into his study and shut the door.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

All evening long, as George looked over legislation and read the long-winded bills that were soon to be on the Senate floor, his mind kept circling back to Alexander Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton, without a surviving relative in the world. Alexander Hamilton, who was inches away from being written off entirely by the foster system that was supposed to help him. Alexander Hamilton...

He looked at the clock. It was past two in the morning. He'd been working for over twelve hours straight. Martha hadn't called him for dinner. She was probably upset with him for brushing her off this afternoon, and rightfully so. George took off his reading glasses and ran a hand over his face. His eyes hurt from reading and his brain was tired from the endless circles he'd been running in his head since the meeting that afternoon.

George stood up and walked out of his study and into the living room. Alexander's file was sitting on the coffee table; Martha must have left it there.

George stood and just looked at that little folder for a long time, as if he was afriad to even be in the same room as it. And maybe he was. But it was like finding a spider, unexpected, in your house and not dating to look away for fear that something will happen while your back is turned.

Very slowly, he walked forward and sat on the couch. He turned on the lamp and reached for the file, opening up the folder and being faced suddenly with that fateful piece of paper.

_Alexander Hamilton. Age: 14. Sex: Male. Mother: Rachel Faucette..._

George closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself staring at Alexander's picture. At the boy on the page who looked like he had given up.

He didn't know how long he sat there before he felt a hand on his shoulder and Martha's  voice drifted to his ear. 

"I couldn't sleep." 

George placed his hand over hers. "I'm sorry for the way I acted after the meeting."

"It's ok," she murmured, both of them still looking at Alexander's picture on the file. "You're right. It would be very hard for us and for him." She ran her hand in gentle circles. "And I know how much it scares you."

"Martha-" George's voice was thick and he trailed off, unable to go further.

"I know."

"How are we going to-"

"We'll figure it out," she soothed. 

She was his rock. They would figure it out.

"I'll call Kitty in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! That one was kind of a tough one to write, but we made it through! Thanks for the read this chapter! Leave a kudos and a comment if you so choose! And let me know if you see any mistakes in this chapter. Next up: Alex meets the Washingtons.  
> Until next time my lovelies,  
> Desiree <3


	3. Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're introduced to one Alexander Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am taking creative liberties here and making stuff up about how fostering works and about how Social Services work. Please bear with me. Also, the Washington DC = Jackson DC thing comes to play in this chapter, so just imagine anything in our world that's called Washington is replaced with Jackson and you're good!

July 24th, 2012 found one Alexander Hamilton sitting on his bed in New York City’s Group Home for Children, scribbling, as ever, in a beat-up spiral notebook with a cheap ballpoint pen. His hand flew, and out of that pen poured poetry and prose, compelling paragraphs and free form thoughts that when read aloud would sound to the ear like sonnets. The pen pressed hard; the pages were wrinkled and frail from the weight of the thoughts that occupied their every crevice and corner, and the fourteen-year-old boy’s hand was smudged with ink.

It may have seemed to some a glamorous, romantic image, the orphan immigrant pouring out his mind and his heart onto the paper before him, the only he had.

In truth, Alexander could not accurately be described as glamorous in any sense. His olive skin was riddled with acne spots, his shoulder-length black hair was oily and half-falling out of an already messy bun. Every so often, a quick hand would fly up from the paper to push the strands away from his face. That face sported a wide forehead and a nose too large to be called beautiful. His eyes were dark and unreasonably expressive, slightly sunken and rimmed with purple and blue either from sleep deprivation or the last vestiges of bruises from a fight. On the best of days, he was a scrawny, awkward-looking thing; on the worst of days he’d been described as looking like death warmed over.

The one constant was the writing. He was always, always writing.

As of July 24th, Alexander had been staying in the group home for a little over three weeks, the longest he’d ever gone between foster homes. The group home was a vague reproduction of an orphanage for the modern day. Long rooms with beds lined up on either side for sleeping, locker room style showers, a run-down cafeteria for meals. Essentially a glorified homeless shelter for the kids too difficult for the foster system to place. If Alex had to describe the home in one word it would be blank. A dismal, gray place as bland as stale white bread.

He was writing to try and ignore what he already knew after three weeks in the home with no word from his social worker.

There would be no more foster homes. Alex was finished, forgotten, abandoned. It wasn’t uncommon for kids who were put here. Alex knew kids in the group home who were seventeen and had been there for years, biding their time until they aged out of the system. Kids with siblings in their twenties too busy dealing to help their own younger brothers and sisters. Kids with criminal records and short fuses all too eager for a power trip.

“Troubled” was the word they always used. Alex was a “troubled” child, they said. Alexander had difficulty adjusting to foster life. Alexander wrote too much. Alexander talked too loud. Alexander got into fights. Alexander was rude. Alexander was disrespectful. Alexander was stupid, worthless, ungrateful…

He’d show them. He’d show them all. One day he’d write his way out.

_Well you wrote your way here, Alex, and no one’s coming for you anymore. I hope you’re satisfied._

In a way he was almost relived. He’d grown tired, over two years, of moving from home to home. They all blurred together in his head until he couldn’t handle it anymore. And in a way, it was nice not to have to. He’d known all along that nobody wanted him. Why should he have to keep up the charade?

Still, he couldn’t shake the slight discomfort that came with knowing he was now well and truly alone.

He missed his mother.

_No. Don’t think about that. Write. Just write it away._

“Hamilton!” A voice jarred Alex out of his thoughts and he looked up in alarm. Standing in the doorway was James, one of the supervisors at the group home. When Alex showed up there for the first time, James and the other supervisor, Peter, told him to think of them as camp counselors. In Alex’s opinion, the home was nothing like a camp. The home was a prison, and James and Peter were its wardens.

“ _Hamilton!_ ” James called again. Alex jolted himself to attention and set his eyes on James, now standing in at the foot of his bed, his arms crossed across his chest and his expression stony. “Pack your things, Hamilton, your social worker’s downstairs; says she’s got a foster home for you and you’re moving in today. Hurry up.” James turned on his heel and left the room without so much as a backward glance or a final word.

Alex felt, for just a moment, a sharp spike of elation rush through him. He hadn’t been forgotten; hadn’t been abandoned. His momentary happiness was quickly crushed, however, by the realization that once again he’d have to endure the charade of being placed in a new home. He knew how it would go. If he hadn’t been abandoned this time, surely he would be soon after this next placement failed as miserably as all the others.

He sighed and slowly began to collect his things. He didn’t have much, just a backpack stowed underneath his bed with a few key belongings in it: a last picture of his mother, rumpled and creased; a leather wallet, nearly worn through and holding any scrap of money Alex could get his hands on; notebooks. The most key writings he’d done over the years since is mother died and he’d entered the system. Some pages torn out and tucked into other volumes that were intact. But reams of paper were stored in this one ratty bag; it was Alexander Hamilton’s whole history in messy inked words.

He closed his current notebook and tucked the pen into the spiral of the binding, running his hand slowly over the deteriorated cover before carefully tucking it among the others and zipping the bag shut. He checked to make sure he had extra hair ties; they formed a thin black bracelet on his slender wrist. Slipped on his shoes, his heels crushing the back as he pulled them on. He was ready to go.

Alex looked back one last time as he stood in the doorway to the dormitory, took one last glance at his bed, and suddenly, fervently, violently hoped for one second that he would never find himself back here again. He turned away and began his walk down the hall to the stairwell.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Surprisingly, Alex liked his social worker well enough. Kitty was a genuinely good person from what Alex had seen, with a true passion and drive to make the lives of the children she worked with better. When he first met her, Alex had thought her false and condescending; he had learned over time that Kitty’s relentless optimism was her coping mechanism for facing so much tragedy on a daily basis. Alex knew he was a trying case for her, but throughout everything, Kitty had never failed to greet him with a smile. He looked forward to their meetings more than he’d like to admit.

When he went downstairs to the front of the home, he went straight to what the kids called the adoption room. It was a sitting room type of arrangement, better furnished than the rest of the building, where apparently people would sometimes come to discuss adopting one of the kids in the home, or a social worker would meet with their kid every blue moon.

From what Alex heard, the place was hardly ever used. It was a disheartening thought.

As he approached the door, Alex could hear voices from inside. First Kitty’s, strictly business, then Peter’s, dripping with sarcasm. Alex could hear the smirk in Peter's voice and he bristled slightly, knowing that they had to be talking about him.

Out of the supervisors, Alex had to hate Peter the most. The man was rude, spiteful, and negligent. He made no secret of how much he hated his job, how all the kids in the home were stupid, worthless wastes who’d made their own lot by being so undesirable in nature that no one would take them. He was never physically cruel, none of the supervisors were, but his words and attitude stung all the same. Whenever he said anything to Alex, it was likely to send the boy into a furious frenzy.

The door burst open and Alex stumbled back as Peter stalked out of the room. He stopped when he saw Alex, gave him a long look up and down that made Alex want to shrink and disappear, then smirked and sneered, “well kid, looks like you’re not my problem anymore.” He gave a malicious laugh and walked past Alex to go back upstairs, calling over his shoulder, “good luck where you’re going, kid!” Alex could hear him laughing all the way up the stairs.

Peter could always make Alex feel small.

He took a deep breath and adjusted his backpack on his shoulders before turning away from the hallway and standing, awkwardly, in the doorway of the adoption room.

Kitty was there inside, gathering up some papers and clipping them carefully into a thick binder, and Alex wouldn’t dare admit that his heart leapt a little when he saw her familiar face, or that he had missed her during his three weeks at the community home with no word from her. He wouldn’t admit that when she looked up and caught sight of him in the doorway, her smile made him feel just a little bit warmer and a little less alone.

“Hello, Alexander,” she said brightly, straightening up and tucking the binder under her arm, “it’s good to see you again.” There was an awkward pause, a silence where she obviously hoped Alex would respond and he didn’t, “I’ve found a new foster home for you,” she continued, smiling sympathetically now, “They’re a lovely couple and I think you’ll like them. We’re going to go meet them today if that’s alright with you.”

Alex snorted ruefully. As if he had any choice in the mater.

Kitty sighed and walked to out of the adoption room, placing her hand on the small of Alex’s back to lead him out the front door of the community home.

“Come on,” she murmured, “let’s get you out of here.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Kitty’s car had become very familiar to Alex after two years of constantly moving from foster home to foster home, and he found himself once again in the slightly worn passenger seat, watching the city go by out his window, listening to Kitty talk about his new foster family. So far he’d learned the basics: their names were George and Martha Washington. Apparently George was a senator (probably some state legislature official or something Kitty thought would spark his interest), and the middle aged couple had no children of their own, so they were very excited to have Alex stay with them.

That last one he found hard to believe.

Kitty seemed to realize that Alex wasn’t interested in hearing anymore because she soon stopped talking and turned on the radio. The sound of quiet classical music filled the car, and Alex closed his eyes and lost himself in his thoughts.

Why did it matter what he knew about his new foster family anyway? He wouldn’t be there longer than three months at the most. He never had. Kitty said that the Washingtons were excited to have him, but Alex knew it wouldn’t be long before they wished he had never even come to their home at all. It was the same with every family. They were always eager to foster at first, but the moment they came across a difficult kid like Alex, they would send him right back. Why should he even bother?

The car slowed and Alex opened his eyes and looked around, expecting to see houses, apartments, something like that. Instead, he found the car pulling into a dim parking deck, Kitty leaning out the window to take a ticket from the machine.

“Where are we?” Alex asked.

“JFK,” Kitty responded matter-of-factly.

The airport? “Why?” Alex was getting nervous now. Where were they going?

“Because,” Kitty pulled into a parking space and shut off the car, “the Washingtons live in Virginia.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

 _Virginia_.

Well this was… unexpected.

 _They’re moving you to a different state_.

Alex’s mind was on loop as Kitty went and retrieved their boarding passes, as they went through security, watching Kitty take her phone and laptop out of her bag, Alex just toeing off his shoes and placing his backpack on the conveyor belt. The same thoughts continued through his head, running in circles as he and Kitty walked to their gate, sat in the plastic airport chairs waiting to board.

 _Virginia_. _They’re moving you to Virginia_.

He’d never left New York since he’d come there with his mother and father years ago; he was so young at the time he barely remembered anything before it. New York was all he knew. He’d been up and down the state during his time in the foster system, inside of New York city and outside in the suburbs and all over, but he’d never left New York before. New York was familiar. New York was home. And now- now they were taking him away and putting him in a new state, putting him in _Virginia_.

 _There’s probably nothing wrong with Virginia_.

 _But it’s not New York_.

He glanced down at his boarding pass. JFK to Ronald Reagan Jackson National Airport. Jackson?

“Kitty?” he called before he was able to stop himself.

The woman seemed surprised that Alex had addressed her on his own. “Yes, Alexander?”

“Where are we flying to?”

“It’s the Jackson, DC airport. The Washingtons live about a half hour outside the city.” She checked her watch and started digging around in her bag, pulling out a book and leaning back in her chair.

“Kitty?”

“Yes, Alexander?”

“What did you say Mr. Washington does again?”

“Kitty casually thumbed through her, book finding her place. She answered distractedly, “He’s a United States Senator. He works in DC.”

Alex had thought that when she said Mr. Washington was a senator she had meant that he was in the state legislature or something like that. Never in a million years would he have guessed that he’d ever be placed in the foster home with a _United States Senator_. He didn’t even know that senators fostered children at all, much less teenage nuisances with Alex's record for failure.

He didn’t know what to think.

He sat with Kitty at the gate until it was their turn to board the plane. They were flying coach. Kitty let Alex have the window seat and he sat hugging his backpack close to his chest until a flight attendant gently requested he put it under the seat in front of him.

They were taxied out onto the runway and Alexander vividly remembered the last time he had been on an airplane; when he came to America with his parents for the very first time. He’d had the window seat, his mother next to him, and his father on her other side.

_“Is it safe, mamá?”_

_“Sí, Alexander, querido. Just wait until we take off.”_

_“Mamá I can see the tops of all the clouds!”_

_“Sí, querido, you are flying away, just like a little bird.”_

Alex closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool surface of the window. He didn’t open them again and let Kitty believe he was sleeping all the way until they touched down in Virginia. If he really spent the whole time trying to imagine that it was his mother beside him instead of his well-meaning social worker, then no one needed to know.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alexander had expected Virginia to feel fundamentally different from the moment he arrived. What he was met with was a bustling airport full of business people and travelers, people going to and from vacations and visits to family. The people he heard talking as he and Kitty walked past didn’t have oppressively southern accents or sport confederate flag memorabilia. When they left through the automatic doors it was hot, but not hotter than he was used to on any given afternoon in New York City in late July.

Overall, if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine was back home.

When he opened them, he could see that it was a different city, a different place. More sprawling, less compact than his New York. In Virginia there was more space to spread out, there was more room to see the sky, spread out and wide. Alongside the airport was a wide, meandering river, and it was along this river that he and Kitty left the airport in a rented car, on their way to Alex’s new foster home.

“That’s the Potomac River. Senator Washington’s estate backs right up to it, Alexander. It’s got a beautiful view. I think you’ll love it.” Kitty hummed happily from the driver’s seat as she and Alex sped along the road, taking them ever away from the humming metropolis of the capitol city, and into a countryside of broad-leafed trees and rolling hills.

“Kitty,” Alex said, quietly, looking away from the window and fixing his eyes on his social worker. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Alexander.”

It had been bothering him in the back of his mind ever since Kitty had first told him where they were going, where he was staying. He held it in all afternoon, maybe because he was afraid of what she’d say, maybe because he already knew the answer, but he knew he had to ask before Kitty left him alone at his new home.

“If I’m technically a kid in the New York foster system,” he paused, watching as Kitty’s faced fell, and Alexander’s heart with it, “how,” Alex continued, “can I stay with a couple in Virginia?”

Kitty didn’t say anything for a long time, just kept her eyes on the road. Alex was starting to think she wasn’t going to answer him when her voice broke the uncomfortable silence in the car.

“You can’t.”

Alex’s chest clenched but he knew he had to confirm his fears. “So,” he began, but the rest of his words stuck in his throat and he couldn’t finish his thought.

Kitty picked it up for him.

“I learned about the Washingtons through a friend of mine who works with Virginia Social Services, and I thought they would be a good fit for you. But you’re right, you can’t stay with them unless you’re registered in the Virginia foster system.” Kitty’s voice grew rough and Alex could see her blinking rapidly as she finished, “that’s why it took me so long to get you into your new placement. I had to wait for all the paperwork to go through.”

Alex felt a surge of emotion rush through him at that. He felt betrayed. He felt cheated. He _hated_ the lack of control he was given in his own life. Kitty had just plucked him out of New York, his _home_ , and stuck him in a new state, not just for one placement, but for as far as he knew, the rest of his years until he aged out of the foster system. And did anyone ask him how he felt about it? Of course not.

“Alexander,” Kitty said again, “I was going to tell you before we got to the Washingtons house, I promise.” Alex didn’t say anything in return. He was sick of being ignored for his own good. He was sick of everyone making all his decisions for him. “But I thought you should know, also,” Kitty continued, her voice quavering in a way that made Alex lift his eyes from his shoes to her face, “that since you’re under Virginia’s jurisdiction, they’re-” her hand flitted up and did a quick swipe under her eye. If Alex hadn’t been watching he would have missed it. “They’re going to assign you a new social worker.”

And Alex wasn’t upset about that at all. He wasn’t thinking about how over the past two years, Kitty was the only constant person in his life. He wasn’t thinking about how she’d always smile whenever she saw him, no matter how many homes he’d been kicked out of. He wasn’t thinking about that at all.

“Alexander,” and he wasn’t thinking about how upset Kitty sounded at _all_ , not even a little bit, “I just want to let you know that it has been a privilege to have you in my caseload these past two years, and that I’ll be working closely with your new social worker for the first few months to make sure everything is in order, and I’m going to give you my personal phone number so that you can call me anytime for anything you need, alright?” She reached over to Alex’s side of the car and grabbed his hand.

Alexander nodded and squeezed her hand, making sure she didn’t have to take her eyes off the road.

“Alright then,” Kitty said, withdrawing her hand and checking the map on her phone. “We should be almost there.”

Sure enough, only a few minutes passed before Kitty pulled off onto a side dirt road and up to a small iron gate. She rolled down the window and pushed the button on a little intercom system with a keypad next to it. The machine crackled, and a woman’s voice said something briefly before the gate swung open and Kitty pulled through.

Alex couldn’t help but feel a little trapped as he watched the gate slowly swing closed behind them. He supposed that a senator’s home would have to have some security though.

 _It’s not for you, Alex_. _No one’s trapping you_. _You’re okay_.

They drove down a long, slightly winding path shaded by a neat row of trees on either side. Past them, Alex saw a beautifully even green lawn with what looked like another row of trees on its other side. He wondered if all senators had homes this lush and green. He wondered if he liked it.

Eventually, they pulled into an oval drive in front of the most gorgeous house Alex thought he had ever seen.

It was a wide, colonial-style mansion. Alex recognized the style from field trips he had taken with school before for colonial history. The house was painted a soft ivory and had a roof and doors in a rusty red. There were two smaller building on either side, making a semi-circle around the drive and connected to the main house by columned pathways grown over with leafy vines.

Kitty pulled around to the front of the main house. She shut off the car and climbed out. Alex looked away from that house and just sat, staring straight ahead.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. He’d beg Kitty to take him back to New York. He couldn’t let her leave him here, this far away from home, with a strange senator and his wife and all Virginia’s rural green hills and nothing familiar to him in the slightest. He couldn’t.

A soft hand landed on his shoulder, causing him to flinch and gasp, pushing away from it and turning to find the passenger side door open and Kitty crouching next to the car, fixing Alex with her earnest, grave eyes.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said firmly, not taking her eyes off of his, “I promise.” Alex closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing.

 _It’s okay_. _You’re okay_.

He thought about how much his mother would have loved the pretty landscapes of Virginia, the river, the wide blue sky.

He opened his eyes. Grabbed his backpack. Got out of the car.

Kitty smiled.

Three steps up to the door.

A small covered stoop.

Three knocks on the solid wood.

Footsteps.

The door opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this chapter to have twice as many things in it and half as many words. But oh well, this is what we ended up with somehow XD. Comments are my life, or come to my tumblr and talk to me about things. I have so many headcanons that sadly probably won't make it into this fic. But I will be happy to discuss them all day! Thanks for the read!  
> Fun fact: [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdSrIc8STno&index=20&list=PLeVj8l2xeJedHnHwu7Qa7S0ue_iUlhdOA) is the classical piece that plays in Kitty's car on the way to the airport.  
> Until next time my lovelies,  
> Desiree <3


	4. Alexander & Martha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander's first moments in the Washington home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been so long and I am so sorry, my lovelies. I wanted to have an at least once a week update schedule, but that's been thrown off due to college preparation. Hopefully I'll be back to normal soon, but thank you all for bearing with me. That said, enjoy chapter four!

The door opened.

Alex dropped his eyes to the ground.

Held his breath.

A pair of bare feet stopped at the threshold of the house.

Which was… not what Alex had been expecting.

He looked up to find a woman, shorter than Alex by maybe an inch (at Alex’s five foot four, it was an impressive feat for him to find himself taller than any adult). She had light brown hair falling loosely past her shoulders. She wore comfortable-looking black slacks and a soft blue blouse, and her eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Alex’s, filled with an emotion he couldn’t place, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

It was amazing how after only three weeks in the group home he had somehow grown so accustomed to living a largely unobserved life. And then here he was, at the door of a new foster home, about to be thrust under the crushing scrutiny of a couple that he knew nothing about, and that probably knew nothing about him either. It was a thoroughly unsettling thought, and Alex felt like his lungs would collapse under the weight of their expectations.

“Alexander,” Kitty’s voice came from beside him, “I’d like for you to meet your new foster mother, Mrs. Washington.”

And Alex winced at the use of the word and had to blink away the beginnings of tears that began to fill his eyes when he heard it. Had to breathe away the anger that flared up inside of him at the implication in the air. Mrs. Washington was not his mother. She never would be. Alex knew that. They all knew that.

He looked back at Mrs. Washington, and the woman gazed at him with something akin to sympathy. “Hello Alexander,” she said, and her voice warm, gentle, yet confident, “I’m Martha Washington. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

It had been a long time since anyone had said that to Alex and sounded so much like they _meant_ it. But even so, Alex felt uncomfortably bare under Mrs. Washington’s scrutiny. After muttering a quick “hello,” he turned his eyes away.

“Would you like to come inside, Alexander?” he heard Mrs. Washington ask. He quickly deferred to Kitty, who nodded at him, before he answered a mumbled “yes ma’am.”

They went inside. Mrs. Washington first, then Alex, then Kitty, Mrs. Washington holding the door open for them as they walked through. When she shut it Alex flinched, sharp anxiety spiking through him as he remembered the gate to the property, those tall iron bars swinging shut and leaving him feeling irrevocably trapped.

 _It’s alright Alex. No one is trapping you_.

Maybe if he told it to himself enough times he’d end up believing it.

Mrs. Washington walked with Alex to the living room, where he sat on the couch, dropping his backpack by his feet, as she and Kitty went into another room on the other side of the house to talk privately, no doubt about him.

And Alex was left alone with his thoughts and his fears.

So far, the Washingtons were… not what he was expecting. When Kitty had told him he’d be staying with a senator and his wife, Alex had pictured a clip art couple, vague and bland and smartly dressed in his and hers suits, their faces plastered with too-wide false smiles. Utterly… marketable. They’d have an enormous house, like the kinds owned by the rich suburban families he’d stayed with in upstate New York, where everything felt like a museum, impersonal and untouchable.

Alex had yet to even see Senator Washington, but Mrs. Washington, from what he had seen, did not fit the image he had conjured up at all. The woman had a jarring sense of _realness_ about her, from the way she dressed to her noticeable lack of height to the crow’s feet that clung to the corners of her eyes and came out when she smiled.

Similarly, the Washingtons’ home was surprising. It was… smaller than expected. It was no New York apartment, to be sure, but compared with the rolling grounds that he’d seen on his drive up with Kitty, the house seemed almost modest in comparison. It had its own distinct character, the way the staircase wrapped around the foyer and almost awkwardly over the door, how he could see that the structure itself was much older and more historic than the furnishings inside. The furniture was done up in comfortable fabrics in neutral tones, and Alex found himself running his hand absentmindedly over the couch cushions. Every flat surface in the home had something on it, be it lamps, vases of flowers, or stacks of books and baskets of knick-knacks or yarn.

It felt like a home.

It felt like a home in a way that Alex hadn’t felt since he entered the foster system, like he hadn’t felt since he was living with his mother in their apartment, before she got sick.

It felt like a home the way Alex’s home felt before his dad left him and his mother alone and scared in the city.

It felt like a home the way Alex’s home felt in his vague memories of the Caribbean before the storm, before coming to America.

And it was with that realization that Alex understood why he perched uncomfortably on the couch, sat stiffly despite the comfortable furniture and Mrs. Washington’s seemingly kind nature.

This was a home. And the Washingtons already had a life here, a life without Alex. And it wasn’t like the other foster homes that he’d been a part of, the ones where the families hosted five kids and he was just the latest in a line. It wasn’t like the group home, where he was just a number and a name in the system. Those places had room for him, empty space that he could slip in and out of and nobody would know. Here, the Washingtons already had a life they were living all by themselves, one that entailed flowers on the end tables and rolling green Virginia hills and-

And Alex didn’t belong anywhere in it. And that feeling permeated his body and mind and made his skin crawl and his eyes water, because this wasn’t home. The Washingtons weren’t his parents, and Virginia was not his home. Alex didn’t belong here. He never would.

*~*~*~*~*

Martha hated to leave Alexander alone on the couch only moments after letting him into her home, but Kitty had assured her that it would only take her a moment to catch Martha up on Alexander’s situation before she went back to New York. Martha led her across the front hall to the music room, leaving the door open so she could keep her eye on Alexander. It was incredible; he had only been in her house for a few moments and yet Martha already felt her world shifting to accommodate Alexander’s presence. She hadn’t felt this way in over a decade.

“So Kitty,” she began, turning toward the younger woman, “what do you need to tell me?”

“Just what we’ve said before,” Kitty replied, “he’s not going to open up easily, you’ll have to give him some time. I think he’s more disappointed than he lets on about the way his previous foster placements have turned out.”

Martha nodded, understanding. She had seen immediately what Kitty meant when she told Martha and George that Alexander was almost too quiet around her. The way he held himself, always slightly slouched and withdrawn, betrayed a lack of confidence that made Martha’s heart ache. She wanted nothing more than to gather the boy up in a hug and try to impart some shred of security into his heart.

“Also,” Kitty said, now a little uncertain, “I can’t be sure, but I think Alexander’s last three weeks in the group home have been rough on him. I haven’t seen him this… defeated before. He usually has more fire in him. I’m worried they didn’t treat him well.”

Anger flared up in Martha at Kitty’s implication. If anyone had hurt that boy…

When she first saw Alexander’s picture in his file he looked exhausted, physically and emotionally, the way one only does after going through unspeakable tragedy. Martha knew that look firsthand, and she ached with sympathy for the boy.

When she saw him on her doorstep, he didn’t look much better. The uncertain set of his shoulders, the way he stood slightly behind Kitty without seeming to notice it, the way he wouldn’t maintain eye contact. She had expected to feel the same sympathy again, and she did.

What she hadn’t anticipated was the elation, the bright and poignant joy that filled her just by having Alexander at her door, or in her house. The excitement that came after Kitty’s first phone call couldn’t compare to this. After she’d spent so many years dreaming of getting the chance to be a mother, after more disappointments than she could count, finally she had a real, tangible chance. But even after all that, Martha could never be prepared for the absolute adoration that blind-sided her the moment she laid eyes on the boy now currently occupying her living room.

She peeked out the door to check on him, and saw Alexander in the same spot she left him in, now curled tightly around his backpack as though he could minimize the physical space he occupied in her home. He looked nervous, even afraid, and it was at that moment that Martha decided.

She would fight for this boy. She would do everything she could do to give him a loving home again. No matter how difficult it was or how long it took, she wouldn’t rest until his face lit up with laughter, and the set of his shoulders displayed comfort and confidence instead of fear.

*~*~*~*~*

Alexander looked up when Kitty and Mrs. Washington entered the room again, and it hit him.

It was time for Kitty to leave and go back to New York.

She was leaving him. She was leaving Alex alone.

He shut down, barely registered her telling him that she was going to leave now, that she had a flight to catch, that he should be good to Senator and Mrs. Washington. He barely felt her curl his hand around a post-it note with her phone number on it, tell him to call her if he needed anything. Barely registered her arm around his shoulders and quickly hugging him goodbye. Kitty standing up, leaving the house, Mrs. Washington seeing her out and closing the door behind her.

And Alex was alone, alone, _alone_.

No. Not alone.

With Mrs. Washington.

Who was currently settled on the couch opposite his, her feet tucked up next to her, leaning on the armrest, and flipping through a thick paperback, black and white and red and the title something about a circus. Alex didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, silently drowning in his anxiety, but Mrs. Washington seemed content to wait for him to come around. She must have noticed him shifting on the couch, uncurling from his tight hold around his backpack, because her eyes flickered away from the pages and she set the book down on the coffee table between them.

The time the two spent surveying each other in silence was likely only a moment in reality, but to Alex it felt like years. Mrs. Washington finally spoke, her voice soft and kind and trying very hard to be welcoming.

“How are you feeling, Alexander?”

Alex blinked. That was not what he was expecting.

“…Fine.” He answered, looking the woman up and down carefully to gauge her reaction. “Ma’am,” he added on, like an afterthought.

She smiled more easily at that answer, and replied, “I’m glad to hear that Alexander.” And it took most of Alex’s self-control not to let his disbelief and scorn show on his face at her words. “My husband,” she continued, and Alex paid close attention to that, “will likely be home late this evening. He told me he’d do his best to get here by a reasonable time so that we can all eat dinner together- he’s very eager to meet you, Alexander- but the traffic out of the city is a nightmare and he gets so busy with work. We might eat later than you’re used to; will that be alright with you?”

“Yes ma’am,” Alex answered, but his mind was occupied more on senator Washington and what he’d have to say when he found Alex in his house instead of the foster child he wanted. Mrs. Washington was kind but it was clear to Alex that the woman was out of her depth. Alex felt bitterness sinking in as he sat there, thinking. It was only a matter of time before the Washingtons realized, just like every other family Alex had ever stayed with, that he was too much hassle for too little payoff. That he wasn’t worth their time. Hell, Mr. Washington was a senator, and Alex wasn’t stupid. It was just as likely as anything that this whole arrangement was just a political publicity stunt. He wouldn’t put it past them.

“Alexander, sweetie?” Mrs. Washington’s voice cut through his haze and he looked up at her again. “I can show you the rest of the house if you’d like. Let you get settled in? Would you like that?” She was overly sweet and patronizing and Alex was tired of it. He wanted to drop the act. He wanted to lash out and tell her to stop faking, and that he wasn’t worth it, and not to pretend she wasn’t disappointed in him already.

Instead he murmured another quick “yes ma’am,” and got up to follow Mrs. Washington as she led him through the house, showing him the kitchen, the living room where they sat before, the music room, dining room, and the rest of the downstairs. Martha gestured to double doors exactly opposite those that Alex and Kitty had come through not long ago. “Out there is the piazza and the view of the river.” She smiled to herself, before adding, “George loves that view more than anything here. I think it’s why he wouldn’t hear of making his home anywhere else in the world.”

“Back there,” she said, pointing through the open room next to the stairs, “is George’s study. He spends most of his time in there,” she added, and Alex picked up on the slight bitterness in her tone, surprised at the first negative emotion that had colored the woman’s words since Alex first stepped foot in the house.

They climbed the stairs, Mrs. Washington leading Alexander onto a small landing with four doors coming off of it. On the right was hers and George’s room, she told him, and next to it was the library.

Alex’s mind caught on that. A _library_. She’d said they had a library _in their house_. A library of their own.

“Just some of George’s and my favorite books,” Mrs. Washington was saying next to him, “all of his law texts and such are in the study…” but Alex couldn’t get past what she’d said, that they had an actual _library_ , a whole room in their house dedicated to what seemed their private collection of books. And Alex…

Alex hadn’t had anything real to read in ages. Not since at least two foster homes ago and that was long before the group home. His opportunities to visit public libraries were few and far between and he never checked out any books for fear that he would have to move away and be unable to return them.

But the Washingtons’ library was all their own, and Alex felt himself absolutely _itching_ to go inside. He could just barely see through the half-open door tall dark shelves packed with books, and he just wanted to wander through the door and-

“And this,” Mrs. Washington’s voice pulled him back to himself, “is what I thought we could make into your room.”

She was pushing open a door on the left side of the landing, closest to the stairs, and Alex quietly followed her inside after she flipped on the light and walked in to show him around.

His first thought was that the room was… bare.

A bed was tucked into the corner opposite where he was standing in the doorframe. A desk was pushed against the wall to his left. The floors were carpeted in a soft cream color, the wall painted in a soft blue. The two windows that looked out over the front lawn and driveway were trimmed with deep blue curtains, matching the bed coverings. The furniture was done up in dark shining wood, matching the crown molding, the design of it simple and refined like the rest of the Washingtons’ home.

It looked lovely, comfortable even. But standing in it the air felt stale and impersonal, and Alex could feel his skin crawl as he looked around at the awkwardly barren room that he had no place in.

Mrs. Washington was explaining something about how the bathroom and closet were through a door in the back, and there were other rooms in the house that he could stay in if he preferred, one next to him and a few on the third floor, and would he like one of those better?

“No ma’am,” Alex whispered, a certain familiar weariness settling into his bones, “this is fine.”

There was a long moment where the two of them stood, just looking around them, too much space and time between them to share it, and too little for them to feel comfortably alone.

“Well,” Mrs. Washington picked up, “I suppose I’ll give you a little time to settle in before dinner this evening. Feel free to come downstairs if you’d like or call me if you need anything, alright dear?” Alex just nodded his head and Mrs. Washington, seemingly satisfied with the response, slipped out of his door, shutting it softly behind her.

Alex walked over to the bed and sat heavily on the edge of it, the soft mattress giving under his weight. Dropped the backpack by his feet. Looked around the room, at the bare walls and the bare desk and sighed, long and heavy and-

It was just like he had felt downstairs in the living room. The room looked like it belonged in the Washingtons’ home, elegant and neat and beautiful. Far more luxurious than anything Alex was accustomed to. And Alex was the awkward piece, the one that didn’t fit in this place.

It wasn’t as though he’d ever felt particularly comfortable in any of his past homes. They were impersonal, most of them, made him feel like he had no identity, made him feel unimportant and ignored. It was the unfamiliarity of the Washington home that unsettled him. The fact that there was no easy “foster placement” pocket for him to slip into and disappear.

He thought back to when he first saw Mrs. Washington standing in the doorway, and the look in her eyes that set him so on edge. He hadn’t been able to place it at the time, but-

Alex opened his backpack and dug around until he found his current notebook. He pulled it out and walked over to the desk in the room, pulling out the chair and sitting down. He ran his hands over the surface of the desk, the shining wood protected by a glass top. Nicer than anything he’d ever written on. On a whim, he pulled open the drawer.

Inside was another notebook, not like his own. A gorgeous notebook, the kind bound in expensive black leather with its own attached ribbon bookmark. Next to it, a pack of costly fine-tipped pens. There was nothing else in the drawer. And Alex knew he shouldn’t, but he reached in and pulled out that notebook, turning it over in his hands and feeling the smooth, comfortable leather under his palms.

He used to look at notebooks and journals like these when he went to get school supplies with his mother. And he used to dream about someday being a real writer, or maybe a lawyer, someone who wore an expensive suit and carried leather notebooks and folios with him, and had real business writing in them. He’d never asked for one, afraid they’d be too expensive, hating the look his mother got when she knew they couldn’t afford something he wanted. And he’d been afraid too that once he had the pages in front of him he’d have nothing important enough to fill them with.

Now as he held this one, heavy in his hands and temptingly beautiful, his heart ached.

He reverently turned the cover over to look inside.

A little piece of paper fell out, fluttering to the floor by his feet, and he bent down to pick it up so he could read the delicate script.

_Dear Alexander,_

The little note fell to the floor again when Alex dropped it in surprise. Then he scrambled to gather it up once again, and he began to read.

_Dear Alexander,_

_We wanted to give you something to welcome you to our home. Kitty mentioned that you like to write, and we thought this might help you feel more at home with us._

_With love,_

_George & Martha Washington_

Alex just stared at the little slip of paper, his fingers tight on the edge as his brain tripped over the words, words like _wanted to give you something,_ like _welcome,_ like _with love_. He didn’t even realize he was crying until he saw a tear fall and begin to smear the ink. It shocked him out of his stupor and he looked at the notebook, and at the note, and back at the notebook again and _they had gotten Alex a gift_.

Maybe some would think poorly of Alex, seeing as he was fourteen years old and sitting alone in his room, crying over nothing more than a small gift of a fairly nice notebook and pack of pens. But to Alex, it meant the world, and even as far away from home as he was, and even as much as he missed his real family, and even as much as his brain teased him and taunted him and whispered to him that nothing good could last, that little gift and the memory of Martha Washington looking at him like he was the center of her universe was enough to give Alex something far greater than just a new notebook.

It gave him a shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there's chapter four! I hope you all enjoyed it, and don't worry, there will be more plot coming along soon. Comment here or talk to me on tumblr if you have questions about the fic! I'd be happy more than happy to chat with you! Until next time, my lovelies, I am as always,  
> Your Desiree <3


	5. Alexander & George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senator Washington comes home, and Alex makes some unfortunate assumptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who isn't gone forever????

A little over two hours later, and Alexander’s hopeful high had worn off almost completely. He paced back and forth across his little room and chewed on his nails. He looked through every drawer in the dresser and in the closet and in the bathroom attached to the back of his room. He sat down to write and opened the new notebook and couldn’t get the nerve up to write in it, so he pulled out his old ratty spiral and his ballpoint pen and wrote nonsense until he could feel the room dimming around him as the sun went down and his hand cramped from the effort of recording the words spilling out of him.

And now he was back to pacing, and thinking about what Mrs. Washington had said, and looking put the window at the dimming lawn and the drive, and waiting for the sound of tires on gravel, and being terrified of when Senator Washington got home, and what that would mean.

He felt frazzled and frayed and so, so exhausted and he wanted to go _home_ –

And he couldn’t write and he couldn’t do anything and it was funny how at the group home he’d never had his own space like this but was content to sit on his bed and write and not get up for hours, and here he had his own room and all he wanted to do was get out of it.

And on a whim he opened the door and found himself looking out at the landing with the lights shining up from downstairs and casting dim shadows around.

And his eyes fell directly on the library’s door.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

For the second time in just over a week, George Washington came home to find things radically different than when he had left that morning.

The firsts, he hadn’t expected it; he’d walked through his front door and said hello to his wife and in just a moment his whole world had shifted in front of him, and he’d thought nothing could be more profoundly surprising than that.

This time he’d known it was coming; he’d barely been able to get through his work that day, had been checking his phone what felt three seconds for news from Martha, his staff giving him strange sideways looks, his secretary smiling slyly as she came in at eight o’clock and told him to go home, for God’s sake.

The drive had felt long, the dark and winding roads unfolding ahead of him endlessly, and it had been a long time since he had gone home in the middle of the week, and it had been a long time since he had been so excited too, or so terribly nervous.

And he was nervous. He’d never admit it to Martha – they had wanted a family together for so long, and she even more than he had – but sometimes George wondered whether it was really _his_ dream along with hers anymore. He didn’t know if he was ready to be a parent anymore, and sometimes he thought that he’d missed his chance, that he wasn’t that person.

But he pushed those thoughts aside and smiled as he came in the front door, and felt the warmth and the light and the feeling of home spilling out into the night and when he closed the door behind him he thought he felt more enveloped and at home than he had in a long time.

He really needed to find more time to come home during the week. He could feel the stress draining away and thought, once again, that Congress and Jackson and the political world weren’t his place, that _this_ was where he belonged, in his and Martha’s little nest beside the Potomac shining under the moon, and the green hills falling out around them.

He walked into the kitchen to find his wife working diligently on dinner, chopping vegetables for a simple salad, humming to herself. And George pulled off his coat, draping it over the back of one of the tall chairs at the island and setting his briefcase down on the counter, and Martha turned around.

And she glowed with a soft light of contentment such as George wasn’t sure he had ever seen in her. And she went to him and kissed him softly and chastely and George _really_ needed to come home more.

When she drew away there was such a look of breathless excitement and anticipation on her face that George felt all the air leave his lungs again and the feeling of something building that had been following him around all day finally crashed over him in one great wave, and he asked,

“How is he?”

Martha’s smile somehow grew in intensity.

“He’s more than we ever could have imagined.”

And George pulled her close and buried his face in her, hiding his smile as he thought about her words.

_He’s more than we ever could have imagined._

“I’m glad,” he whispered before Martha pulled away and went to continue working on dinner. George moved around the kitchen, pulling out dishes to set their small table by the window, and reveling in the fact that he had to pay extra attention to make sure he grabbed everything in groups of threes.

“Although,” Martha’s voice came from behind him, and he didn’t have to look to know that her expression had fallen, “Kitty told me some more things. She says that she’s worried they didn’t treat him well at the group home in New York. He’s very quiet for a boy whom everyone calls a trouble-maker. I’m…” she trailed of, and George turned around to look. Martha was looking down at the counter, refused to meet his eyes, “I’m worried about what they did to make him that way, is all.”

And that tugged at George’s heart strings because if anyone knew suffering, it was his wife, and he hated to think of that boy in the file’s picture being hurt in any way, more than he already had been.

“It’s alright,” George said, “he’s here now.” And that sentiment surprised him as much as anything, but once it was out, ringing in the air between them like that, he realized how much he meant it. That was why they did this, after all, wasn’t it? Not just for themselves, but to help young people like Alexander, who couldn’t help themselves.

“He’s here now,” he found himself saying again. “He’s here now, and we’ll take care of him.”

Martha smiled at him again. “Well then,” she added quietly, “I suppose you can begin by calling him to dinner. I showed him to the blue room earlier; he should still be there. You go introduce yourself, and I’ll finish up here.”

George nodded, and turned to make his way toward the stairs, his nervousness overtaking him all over again.

Up the dim staircase and to the landing above, his heart seeming to beat a mile a minute. It was funny. He was able to lead men into battle but the prospect of just meeting a 14-year-old boy was almost overwhelming.

It was the weight that he and Martha had put upon it after all these years. George assumed that most foster parents would be a bit nervous meeting their first foster child, but he and Martha had never had any children of their own before; had no experience operating as parents. Sure, they’d interacted with young people before; the children of friends and colleagues, but they’d never done this. They’d never been parents. They didn’t know how to be parents. They didn’t know how their lives would change.

And it was funny that after everything George had done in his life, his relationship with Martha was still what could set him on edge and make him feel young and vulnerable and nervous all over again.

And with their history, both their history, but George’s especially, the subject of _children_ could make it even worse.

The blue room was dark, but the lights in the library were on, the door cracked. And George, when he saw it, smiled to himself, before stepping across the landing and pulling the door open quietly.

He saw a small figure with its back to him, over by the Shakespeare shelf. Worn clothes, and George thought that he and Martha would have to do something about that, dark hair, a thin frame. And he was suddenly overtaken by the realization that here he was, that Alexander was real, and was here, and that the figure in the file’s picture was so much more than that, and George was responsible for this boy’s entire welfare. It was like the feeling he’d had in the army, when he first realized his responsibility for his men, but it was different and it was more, somehow.

It was humbling, to say the least.

But Alexander was still fixated on the bookshelf in front of him, had yet to notice George, so George gently cleared his throat.

And then things happened very quickly.

Alexander whirled around, gasping, and the book he had been holding went tumbling out of his hands to the ground, landing with a loud thud.

And then silence, with George staring at Alexander, and Alexander staring back, and both of them knowing what to say.

George broke first.

“Son –”

“I’m sorry,” the boy blurted, backing into the bookshelf behind him until George could see the edges of the shelves digging into his shoulders, “I’m sorry, sir, I know that I wasn’t given permission to be in here, but the door was open, and I was just looking, I swear, I –”

“Alexander.” George cut the boy off, raising his hands in what he hoped was a placating way, but Alexander was quiet and his eyes watched George’s movements tensely and warily and full of _fear_ , and George’s heart ached as he thought about what had happened to Alexander to make him so afraid of him.

“Alexander,” he said again, softer this time, and very deliberately putting his arms down, “it’s alright. I’m not upset with you, son.”

“I’m not your son,” the boy snapped, his eyes flashing and voice venomous, and George saw suddenly the fire that Kitty had mentioned to them, before Alexander seemed to realize what he had done and his eyes widened and his shoulders curled in.

But George just kept his eyes on the frightened boy and tried to make his voice kind and reassuring, to wipe away the boy’s fear. “Of course, Alexander,” he said, “my apologies.”

Alexander fidgeted awkwardly for a second, his posture relaxing just slightly and his eyes dropping to the ground. He murmured something that George didn’t catch, and George leaned forward.

“What was that, Alexander?”

“It’s Alex,” the boy said, a little louder and nervously meeting George’s eyes, seeming to gauge his reaction to being corrected, “I prefer to just… go by Alex…” He trailed off awkwardly, and George found himself suddenly realizing that he was out of his depth, that he had no idea how to act around this seemingly shy, yet intelligent and fiery boy. And he found himself floundering to make a good impression just as surely as Alexander – no, Alex – was at the moment, and he thought it somehow ironic that they should both be so nervous around each other.

And yet, just the sight of the boy standing there, in his house, in his and Martha’s home, in their _library_ for God’s sake – it filled him with an inexplicable excitement, and a bizarre sort of hope, and the thought that even just a few minutes in this boy’s presence had changed his life so much, and he wanted to keep him around and see what other changes he would bring. He wanted to meet Alex and know Alex and bring Alex into their home, to be really a part of their family, his and Martha’s little family that they had always wanted but never had.

“Well then, Alex,” he heard himself say, and his voice sounded vague and distracted even to his own ears, but he felt a smile creeping onto his face as he added, “you can call me George.”

Alex looked a little confused at his words, but the boy gave him a wary half-smile and nodded. George’s eyes flicked toward the floor, catching sight of the forgotten book, _Julius Caesar_ , lying between them. He stepped forward, pretended not to notice Alex’s nervous flinch, picked up the book before holding it out to Alex, waited patiently as he reached out and took it carefully out of George’s hands. He watched how the boy cradled it almost reverently, wondered how long it had been since he’d had books of his own to read, if he’d ever had books of his own at all.

Alex slid the book carefully back onto the shelf behind before turning back to George again, the two of them falling into another awkward silence, neither knowing what to say or what to do.

“George?” Martha’s voice came from the doorway behind him and George noticed the way Alexander’s posture relaxed slightly at the sound of her voice and the addition of her presence in the room, how he leaned over a little to catch sight of her. George turned toward his wife, feeling as though he had somehow missed something.

“There you two are,” Martha said, a smile lighting her face, “I was starting to think you got lost.”

Alex’s eyes flickered nervously between George and his wife, back and forth and slightly frantic, and George softened and turned to her and said, “Alex was just taking a look at the library.”

Martha smiled at that and George imagined Alexander relaxing again behind him. “Ah,” she said softly, and George knew that tell-tale pleased twinkle in her eye anywhere. “I should have realized that you two would get side-tracked up here.” Her words bordered on stern, but the smile in her eyes betrayed her true feelings, “but the books can wait. Come downstairs for dinner before it gets cold.”

“After you, Alex,” George said, turning toward the boy and gesturing toward the door, and Alex tensed up before walking uneasily past him, keeping just the right distance for George to see just how uncomfortable the boy was. And George’s heart ached at that but for now there was nothing he could do but turn off the library’s lights and close the door, and follow his wife and Alex down the stairs.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alex, when he arrived at the Washingtons’ house that afternoon, found that Mrs. Washington had surprised him, defying his expectations in a way that left him confused and uneasy.

But that feeling was nothing compared to how it felt to meet her husband.

The man was imposing as hell, at least six feet tall, broad shouldered, his resting expression one of seriousness and intensity. When Alex first saw him, walking into the library in dress pants and shirt and a tie around his neck he could practically see the man fighting battles on the Senate floor. But then the man would smile, and his voice was soft and controlled, and he looked at Alex with an obvious underlying uncertainty, and Alex wasn’t sure what to feel.

And Senator Washington with his wife was another man entirely.

Alex could see the similarities between Mr. and Mrs. Washington, how they fit together seamlessly. It was in every line of both of their faces, in the way his posture relaxed the moment she entered the room and the way they constantly shifted and moved to accommodate the other in their space, a seamless dance that it must have taken them years to perfect – Alex imagined a flowing white wedding years ago, a perfect fairytale love story, a perfect home in the hills of Virginia. A perfect image.

Dinner continued the same way. A round table set for three in the kitchen, lasagna and garlic bread and salad served on perfectly white china. The Washingtons made easy jokes and conversation back and forth and Mrs. Washington’s eyes sparkled and Mr. Washington laughed and it was all such a defined and settled _life_ – and Alex was struck again with that sense of unease, a thought lurking somewhere in the back of his mind that something was _wrong_ with this utterly perfect domestic life –

A life that –

“Alex?”

Didn’t belong in –

“Alex, dear?”

And just like that it was gone and Alex’s head snapped up. They were looking at him, both the Washingtons, and Alex panicked slightly as he tried to recall what had been said, but it was all lost in the haze of his own thoughts –

“How are you liking your dinner? I can get you something else if you’d like.” Mrs. Washington said, looking at Alex with a furrowed brow.

Alex looked down, realized he had only just been picking at his food for the whole of dinner so far. “No, it’s – I like it.” He awkwardly stammered, unsure what to do with his hands, with his eyes.

“Here,” Mrs. Washington said gently, getting up and walking around the table to where Alex was sitting and taking his plate, “It’s probably gone cold by now. I’ll just go warm it back up for you.”

“I – It’s really fine –”

“It’s nothing dear, really.” And with that she had already gone back around the counter and Alexander sat uncomfortably in his chair with nothing to focus on and no idea of what to, and the only sounds were of the microwave humming and Senator Washington’s silverware.

Until the man spoke.

“How did you like the library, Alexander?” And Alex looked at the man in surprise and the words were tumbling out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying.

“I thought it was wonderful. And I mean I know I probably shouldn’t have gone in there before I had permission but I saw it this afternoon when Mrs. Washington took me upstairs and I just wanted to look – and you have so many books, it must have taken years to collect them all.” He was so caught up in the memory of exploring the titles along the shelves that he didn’t even notice Mrs. Washington slipping his plate back in front of him and sitting down, she and her husband trading a look, “and of course I wasn’t in there long enough to really see everything in your collection, I was just skimming, but  I…” he trailed off once he finally noticed both Washingtons watching him silently from either side, and even though they were smiling he felt his heart drop and the anxiety under their scrutiny scrunch up in his chest and he ducked his head back down to his food and quickly shoveled a bite of lasagna into his mouth because _you talk too goddamn much Alexander shut up or they’re not going to like you._

_Why the fuck do you care if they like you?_

The lasagna was good. Hot, almost too hot, but bracing and hearty and savory and the one advantage of actually eating dinner at the table was that it was the perfect thing to keep from looking at the Washingtons.

“I’m glad to hear that, Alex,” came Senator Washington’s voice, and Alex glanced up for a second to see that he still had that soft smile on his face. And his next words nearly knocked Alex out of his chair. “You’re welcome to anything in our library at any time.”

“What?” Alex looked at Senator Washington in awe.

The man looked at Alex as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re welcome to anything in our library,” he repeated, “Martha and I believe in the importance of being well read. We’ll never keep you from pursuing an interest in it.” He smiled knowingly at his wife. “Plus it’ll be good for those books to see some use again.”

Alex could barely believe what he was hearing. Had he been able to get a hold of himself he likely would have protested, but it was a long day and he somehow felt exhausted and before he knew it, “I – thank you sir,” he said quietly, suddenly embarrassed and looking down at his plate again rather than at the Washingtons with their kind eyes and sincere smiles that set off an ache somewhere deep inside that he didn’t want to think about.

They seemed to back off after that, not requiring much of Alex for the rest of dinner, allowing him to quietly eat and excuse himself to go to bed, Mrs. Washington kindly asking him if he needed anything else and telling him where to find things in the bathroom before he escaped upstairs, chased by that same feeling that haunted him at dinner.

Warmth, and love. It felt like he was loved, and out of all the things that he’d thought about that day that one scared him the most. Because it felt like love, but Alex wasn’t loved. The Washingtons didn’t love him; they hardly even knew him.

And the Washingtons had a library full of books and a pretty white house on a hill, and a rolling green lawn out their front door, but Alex wasn’t theirs and they weren’t his and Alex didn’t belong in it, they had a perfect picture of family life and then there was him.

 _And then there was him_.

Anger flashed through him as he finally understood. The Washingtons were a perfect family, and what was Alex to them?

He was a tool, nothing more than a political advantage for the Washingtons to parade around. After Alex’s track record, why would anyone want to take him, let alone a _United States Senator_? Why would they treat him the way they were, welcoming and kind, giving him gifts and letting him into their library?

To keep him complicit, to keep him in line and happy so they could parade him around, the orphan immigrant on display as some sort of pity play, some sort of ethical boost for Senator Washington’s next reelection campaign. That had to be it. There was no other way it made sense.

He wouldn’t go along with it. He wouldn’t let them use him that way, he’d do something, he wouldn’t become that person for them.

But what could he do? He’d been dropped into a new state with a new family and a social worker he didn’t even know yet, and the Washingtons had been kind and gentle so far and if he played his cards right they could end up being the best foster family he’d ever had. If he fucked this up, he’d be thrown into the Virginia system and he couldn’t know where he’d go from there.

He wanted to go _home_.

He missed his mother. He missed meaning something to someone, really meaning something, to the point where they knew him and wanted him and would keep wanting him no matter what, and it felt like it had been ages since he’d had that.

His eyes flicked around the room and his heart and breath sped and Alex was _trapped_. And all he wanted was to get out and go away but for once he couldn’t, because for once he didn’t know where he would go.

His gaze settled on the desk in the corner, and he got up, walked over, flicked on the lamp. He opened the cover of the notebook, clicked the fine new pen, waited for the words to come.

They didn’t. The softly lined creamy pages of the notebook stared back at him, empty and mocking, and Alex had the sudden urge to throw the damn thing out the window, to snap the pen and let the splattered ink ruin those pages and hurl that damn notebook as far from him as possible. And the note next to it screamed at him words that scared him and confused him and he wanted to break something and scream and his hand gripped the pen so hard that he felt the plastic of the pen splinter under his fingers, and when he looked at the long crack running the length of the barrel, all he felt was tired.

He went to bed, but not before he took the note and pressed it in the front cover of the book with shaking hands, flicked off the light, and carried that notebook back to bed with him, tucking himself into the heavy, downy covers and laying his hand on the smooth leather cover.

That was how he finally slept, in the softest bed he’d ever slept in, in the most gorgeous house he’d ever seen, with his hand resting gently on the nicest notebook he’d ever owned, and in Virginia, where everything was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time, but college is a lot my lovelies and I'm sorry to abandon you. I lost the thread of where this story needs to go for a while there, but it's been knocking around in my head for a few months now and I think I've found my way again. Hopefully we'll get this started up again and back to a more reasonable update schedule.  
> As always, you can come talk to me on tumblr or in the comments if you feel so inclined. Hope you enjoy the latest chapter, and I hope I haven't led you too far astray.  
> As Always,  
> Your Desiree <3


	6. Martha & Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble in paradise. The Washingtons are neglectful. Alex notices, but he's not sure how to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the Washingtons seem like bad parents in this chapter, it's because they kind of are. Didn't you know there would be growth for everyone in this story?

Martha leaned against the door, letting it shut behind her, and let out a heavy sigh. She kicked off her shoes, closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the solid wood and her body slump. Her purse dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

It had been a long morning.

For all that her husband was busy, there were times when Martha felt even busier, juggling her own work in charity and advocacy, managing the estate, keeping the land maintained and the finances in order and –

Sometimes she wondered if being the Senator wasn’t the easier job.

She was thankful to her husband, in reality; she loved him and respected him, and he was probably the best thing that had ever happened to her. But after their years together, as they had both moved into new professions and put ever more responsibilities on their plates, things had changed. They were changing, and she didn’t know how just yet, but there was a voice in the back of her mind nagging her, saying: _this isn’t where you thought you’d end up._

_Well of course it isn’t, Martha. You’ve thought a lot of things._

She pushed her those thoughts out of her mind and pushed her body off of the door and pushed herself back into the present –

And walked to George’s office.

A quiet knock on the door and gently she pushed her way in to see her husband sitting at his desk, sun streaming across the papers spread out haphazardly across the smooth, glassy surface. George’s reading glasses were slipping down his nose; he was peering over them at his laptop screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then his eyes drifted up and caught sight of her and he leaned back and _smiled_.

And how could Martha complain?

A wave of weariness came over her, that comfortable, easy weariness of being home and knowing she could relax, and she flopped onto her back on George’s office couch and threw an arm across her eyes and heard him laugh.

“Have a good morning, dear?”

She looked at him sideways from under her arm.

“You have _no_ idea.”

He chuckled again and she swung her legs off the couch, sitting up and looking him in the eyes, and she laughed with him.

“How’s Alex?” she asked in the ensuing quiet. George hummed and looked back down at his files, pulling out a highlighter.

“Haven’t seen him much today,” he said, casually highlighting a few lines on the document in front of him. Martha’s heart sank a bit at that. Alex had been with them for almost a few weeks and hadn’t warmed up one bit since that first night when he had arrived. He ate with them and spoke when spoken to, but for the most part he had seemed tense and keyed-up and worried, and had seemed to avoid Martha and George at all costs, staying in his rom most of the time. Martha had taken him shopping for some new clothes on his second day in the house, and the whole experience had been tense and awkward, Alexander quietly denying his need for anything new and Martha unable to pull anything out of him. They’d left with a few articles, but Alex was desperately in need and Martha could hardly stand it.

 _Haven’t seen him much today_ suddenly seemed the worst thing George could have said.

She had hoped Alex would warm up after a week or so; he’d seemed to come out of his shell a bit that first night with the introduction of the library, but Martha had seen no such enthusiasm since then, despite her efforts to engage the boy in conversation from time to time. She tried to content herself with the fact that at least for now they were providing Alexander with a safe home and enough food and that the rest would come in time, but after days of inactivity she was starting to think that more proactive measures would have to be taken. She’d tried to leave Alex to his own devices so she didn’t overwhelm him, but she was beginning to realize that she’d have to be more persistent if he wanted the boy to come out of his shell.

_Not that George is helping with that in any way._

The thought came out of nowhere and it felt like an electric shock went through her body and her eyes flew open wide and she looked up at George as though he could hear her thoughts. George never looked up from his papers.

 _Don’t think like that, Martha, he’s just busy – you’re both busy_.

Not to mention there was the question of Alexander’s schooling for the fall. In fact –

“Have you spoken to Philip about the school yet?”

George looked up again from the papers in front of him, “I’m sorry?”

“School,” Martha repeated, “it’s less than a month until school starts, and Alex is going to need a place to attend in the fall. You were going to talk to Philip about his daughters’ school.” At the look on George’s face, Martha stood and sighed. “You didn’t remember, did you.”

“I’m sorry, dear, really.” He said, and he _looked_ sorry, “I’ve just been busy this week –”

“Yes, of course,” Martha interrupted, her words coming out clipped and sharper than she expected, “it’s all right, I’ll call him and ask, I know you have work.” And George almost looked like he wanted to say something but she was out the door and pulling up Philip Schuyler’s number on her phone before he could say anything, and she was standing on the back piazza with her finger hovering over the call button and the Potomac stretched out in front of her before she sighed and put the phone away, collapsing into a chair and letting her head fall into her hands.

She didn’t know what had come over her, what came over her every time George came home from D.C. every weekend just to hole himself up in his office, what came over her when she thought that the White House aides or the Vice President got to see her own husband more than she did.

It was almost resentment and almost pain and almost bitterness in an unsettling and sad way, and Martha desperately didn’t want to become one of _those_ wives, the butt of every husband’s bar joke, but –

But George was her center and her guide and she knew when she married him that she would never find another man like him as long as she lived. One who accepted all of her flaws and her wretched past and took it in his stride, and who expected so little of her, and she loved him she _did_ , of course she did –

Lately though, ever since George was elected to the Senate, it seemed that they had drifted further and further apart, and Martha had been able to ignore it for years, to write it off and content herself but…

But it was different now. Now they had Alexander. They had a fourteen-year-old boy in their care and it wasn’t just the two of them anymore and somehow it seemed that just introducing the responsibility of Alex’s well-being into their lives had thrown every splinter and crack in their relationship into sharp relief, ugly and bare and on display for Martha to spend hours per day watching and analyzing and agonizing over.

And she _missed her husband_.

She wondered if George even wanted to foster at all.

She wondered how on Earth they had gotten so far off-track.

She sat there and watched the slow Potomac catch the light of the afternoon sun, and then she looked at the time and went inside.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alex had been with the Washingtons for almost two weeks and it… wasn’t horrible yet.

So far, they’d left him alone for the most part, Senator Washington spending all week in D.C. and his wife working on her own things that Alex hadn’t bothered to look into. Why would he? He spent his days writing when he could and reading when he couldn’t, sneaking into the library and losing himself in books for hours at a time, sometimes getting through whole novels in the course of an afternoon, or anthologies of essays on politics, economics, philosophy. In all honesty, he preferred the latter, and would listen with fascination to Senator Washington’s conversations with his wife detailing the activity of Jackson D.C. when he was home on the weekends. He had yet to weigh in with his own ideas, though at times he could barely restrain himself from butting in at some of the things Senator Washington said.

They left him alone, and it was… nice.

Alex thought, as he settled onto his bed with another book pulled from the Washingtons’ shelves, that it could be much worse. Hell, he might never have had better in his whole time in the foster system. The Washingtons were a nice family and they had a nice home and Alex knew he should be grateful for the kindness that they’d shown him thus far. But… he couldn’t help but feel almost… lonely.

How stupid was that, feeling lonely in spite of everything. He’d been alone for two years now, he’d been tossed from home to home and tossed back out again, he hadn’t made friends like the other kids in his homes had, he preferred to keep to himself and read and write.

Even so, he was lonely, and maybe it was the isolation of the Washington estate, of being in that house every day with no one coming or going and just Alex and Mrs. Washington sitting in different rooms, each caught up in their own pursuits.

It wasn’t like Mrs. Washington wasn’t trying, checking up on him periodically, even attempting to take him shopping for some new things after he arrived, and at some level Alex wanted to just give in to her persistent gentle kindness –

But every time he’d think of Senator Washington in D.C. and reporters and public images and reelection campaigns and he’d remember that no matter how kind the Washingtons were, he was just a pawn in their game of chess.

And it made his skin crawl.

He heard the sound of the front door opening downstairs and took a look out of his window to see Mrs. Washington’s car parked outside on the gravel drive. Alex hadn’t even noticed that she’d gone out.

He fell back into his book for a while before he heard Mrs. Washington call him for lunch and he obediently went downstairs. And he sat at the kitchen island and quickly consumed a sandwich and Mrs. Washington went outside to talk on the phone, and Alex thought that, lonely as it was, it was nice to be settling into a sort of bizarre status quo.

**…**

Until that evening.

It started normally enough, the three of them sitting down to dinner, Senator Washington home on Saturdays, but Alex could tell there was something different in the air, a sort of stiffness between the Washingtons that he hadn’t seen yet and he couldn’t help but feel the anxiety creeping in at that and think that _Alex it’s your fault what did you do._

And then Mrs. Washington spoke.

“Alexander,” and then she paused, seeming to gather her thoughts before carefully proceeding, “George and I were just discussing some options for when school begins in a month or so.” _We’re trying to decide what to do with you._ “We know another Senator who spends a lot of his time in D.C. and his three daughters go to a private school there. We thought it might be a good fit for you.”

Alex felt sick to his stomach. This was it, this was what he’d been afraid of ever since his first night with the Washingtons, this was the part where they’d twist him and mold him into their image and make him into the perfect foster son, and example of the way all that _potential_ from the orphan immigrant could be put to good use, and all Alex’s problems could be solved if they just threw enough money at him.

He’d seen the rich prep school kids before, in New York. One of his foster families was rich enough to send their kids, and along went Alex with them at the start of the school year. And in the midst of all the affluence, all the kids who took their wealth for granted and looked down on Alex –

He hadn’t even lasted a month.

Then it was a matter of days before Kitty had appeared at their door.

And now the Washingtons wanted to do the same thing.

And Alex couldn’t say no because he wasn’t in New York and Kitty was gone and they were all he had left.

And he felt sick.

“Of course, it would be your decision” he heard Martha say, but it _wasn’t_ Alex’s decision and he felt trapped but everything else felt distant and everything was closing in and he _knew_ this would happen he knew it he knew it and he hated the Washingtons and he hated Virginia and all he wanted was to just get _out_ but _he didn’t have anywhere to go_.

“Alexander are you alright?”

And Alex hadn’t realized that he was standing but he was and the Washingtons were looking at him with concern and alarm and –

“I – I’m – ” he stammered and then he was on the stairs as moving as quickly as he could manage without actually running and then he was in his room and the door was closed behind him and he was sitting on his bed with his head in his hands and he wanted to feel safe but he was still _here_.

He tried to slow his breathing as he sat there in his silent room and thought over what Mrs. Washington had said, had implied, and thought that she could never understand, she and her husband with their perfect house and perfect life and their constituents and everything that that implied, and he thought of how _badly_ he didn’t want to be their pawn or their pity play and then he thought of the Virginia foster system and his nameless, faceless new social worker and how if he fucked up another placement they’d write him off forever and he’d never get anywhere in life.

And it was that thought that was circling in his head when he fell into fitful sleep, still in his clothes and lying on top of the covers and his stomach churning and his heart aching.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Asking Alex about school had gone about as badly as it could have in Martha’s opinion.

The boy had seemed to panic at the very thought of it, shutting down and running upstairs and Martha was desperate to go after him but George said to give him space, so she sat and finished her food and worried.

She worried as she loaded the dishwasher and scraped Alex’s barely-touched dinner off of his plate, and wished she had done a better job of breaching the subject.

She worried as George went back to his office to look over ever more legislation and she quietly climbed the stairs to Alex’s room.

She worried when she knocked on the door and got no answer, and tried to turn the doorknob only to find the room locked.

And she worried as she silently went to the bedroom and got ready for bed and as she slipped under the covers alone, and she worried as George came up the back stairs from his office and slipped into bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her nose, and Martha gently put his arms away from her and turned over and worried herself to sleep.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alex woke up disoriented, lying above his sheets and still in last night’s clothes and the with the morning light creeping in between the curtains. And for a moment everything was still and calm and hazy in that half-asleep state, and then –

School. Last night’s dinner. The Washingtons.

Oh god, he ran from the dinner table, he ran from the Washingtons and shut them out, locked his door, and he was terrified that he had just ruined the careful status quo of mutual avoidance that they had built over the past few weeks.

He wanted to stay in bed but he couldn’t sleep, and restlessly he got up and got ready for another day. Shower, clothes, walking down the stairs to get breakfast; Senator and Mrs. Washington were definitely awake already.

When he got downstairs, there was the telltale muffled speaking form the direction of Senator Washington’s office that told him the man was on a phone call. There was movement in the kitchen and Mrs. Washington was seated at the island sipping coffee and looking at a newspaper. A relaxed “hello” from Mrs. Washington, Alex getting a bowl of cereal the way he’d grown accustomed to doing in the last week or so, and then the quiet of a Sunday morning.

It wasn’t quiet for long.

Mrs. Washington set down her coffee cup and took a deep breath and Alex tensed because he already knew where this was going.

“Alexander,” she spoke quietly, not meeting his eyes, “last night I mentioned school starting in about a month,” Alex didn’t look at her either, just fixed his eyes on the counter in front of him, waiting to hear her tell him what he had done wrong and – “I… know you’re probably nervous about everything –” and oh, this was even _worse_ she was being _patronizing,_ “but we’d like for you to consider the school that our friend suggested. His daughters have been very successful there and we think it might be a good fit for you.”

The whole talk sounded rehearsed on her part and it made Alex sick, that realness that he’d observed on his first day in the Washington home falling away into exactly what he’d expected – the Washingtons changing him into something he wasn’t, using him for their own purposes.

Mrs. Washington hadn’t said anything since her original little speech and neither had Alex and they sat in that uncomfortable quiet and Alex wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’ve…” Mrs. Washington started, “scheduled a tour of the school and a meeting with some of the administration just… just so you can take a look around. It’s standard procedure for new students to visit first just to see if the fit is right.” She sounded hopeful now, but Alex refused to meet her eyes, thinking only of how it was all so _fake_. “Of course… it’ll be your final decision as to whether you want to attend or not, and we can discuss other options if you’d like.”

Alex didn’t say anything, just looked at the counter in front of him and fiddled with his spoon and wondered how much trouble he’d get in for refusing with a straight out “no.”

And god, it was all so stupid. Alex didn’t belong with the Washingtons. He didn’t belong at a fancy private school in D.C., and he wasn’t one of those rich, preppy kids who had the money to burn.

And he didn’t _want_ to be one of them. He wouldn’t be that for the Washingtons.

But when he looked Mrs. Washington looked hopeful and determined somehow all at once, and her husband was in his office right across the way, and Alex thought back to the tense atmosphere around the dinner table the night before, and he felt his stomach drop out with dread.

“Sure,” he murmured, dropping his eyes again, and then getting up from his chair to rinse out his bowl and deposit it by the sink.

“Thank you, Alex,” Mrs. Washington said, but Alex didn’t listen, didn’t acknowledge it, just walked up the stairs again and shut the door to his room behind him.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

“I talked to Philip.”

“Hmm?” George looked up from yet another set of papers in an obscenely thick packet and Martha wondered briefly if the United States Congress might not be single-handedly responsible for deforestation because good _god_.

And George’s vacant expression made her cross her arms and pull herself up a little taller and repeat with conviction,

“Philip Schuyler. I phoned him yesterday. I asked about his daughters’ school. Alexander has an appointment for a visit and an interview.”

George smiled, a small thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good. Have you talked to Alex about it?”

“I just did.”

“Good.” Back to his papers, red pen slashing through certain lines, black pen making notes in the margins. Martha spoke again.

“He’ll get in. His test scores alone would do it; they don’t even really need the interview. I think it’ll be good for him to have a school to go to again. He’s clearly intelligent, maybe it will help him come out of his shell.”

“You would know best about that, dear, I’m sure.”

Every word out of his mouth felt like a dismissal and Martha felt that same sensation come creeping, cold into her stomach, that one she’d gotten just the day before when she stood in this same place and had a conversation that felt exactly like this one.

“Well,” she offered, “just thought I’d come in and let you know.”

“Thank you, dear,” George said, “would you mind closing the door on your way out?”

“Not at all,” she replied, flatly.

If the door clicked behind her with a little more force than usual, she doubted her husband even noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a weird chapter, but parenthood is weird. Marriage is weird. Consider this the calm before the storm.  
> Come talk to me, I beg of you. Comments become the hightlights of my day, and you can always come find me on tumblr.  
> Until next time, I am, as always,  
> Your Desiree <3


	7. Martha & Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension in the Washingtons' marriage comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap we passed 2000 hits and 200 kudos this week?! My little brainchid is growing up! You lovelies are the absolute best and I am so unbelievably flattered. <3  
> This chapter was meant to include Alex's school interview and the events after, but that ended up being longer than anticipated, so I made this its own chapter. Prepare yourselves for angst and allusions to the Washingtons' backstory. Enjoy!

Martha had always found working in the kitchen therapeutic, stereotypical as the world said it was. There was something methodical in the work, washing and cutting and the careful art of creating something wonderful.

She drizzled dish soap into the wide pan in her hand, swirling warm water and suds around and picking up the sponge by the sink and got to work scrubbing her anxieties into nonexistence.

Another week had rapidly rolled by, and Martha was at her wit’s end.

No progress had been made with Alexander. Not a bit. The school had called to reschedule Alex’s interview to a week later, which left her waiting until Monday, and Alex himself remained every day in his room, as far as Martha knew.

She felt like her hands were tied. To be more assertive with him, to take initiative and force her hand would just scare Alexander off even more. And yet, all of her efforts to be kind and gentle and welcoming with him had failed miserably. Alex had closed himself off and Martha couldn’t think of anything that would change that.

She felt helpless, doomed to sit by and watch while Alexander isolated himself, while Alexander didn’t get the things he needed, while Alexander still wore shabby, too-small clothes and still carried fear in the set of his shoulders and still lived _miserably_ because _Martha couldn’t figure out how to make it better_.

It wasn’t like George was being helpful either.

She tried; god knows she tired. She had called him and texted him every single day that week, telling him what was happening at home, asking him for advice on how to reach out to Alexander, talking about her own work and the projects she was involved in, _anything_ to get his attention, to get him to _talk to her_. But something was wrong, and every night, and every time, it was a cursory word, a quick not-quite dismissal before he had to get back to something else, and Martha felt like she was swimming upstream with him _and_ with Alexander. And that wasn’t like him, she’d thought, and god, she’d wanted children, she’d wanted a family but she didn’t think she’d have to do it alone.

And she felt the way she did with _Daniel_ , of all people, and she had thought – she had thought when she married George she would never have to feel that way again, but again she was standing on the edge of being a _mother_ and her husband wasn’t there with her.

Her hands ceased in their work and the pan she was washing clattered down, and she bent over the kitchen sink and felt a tear slip out of her eye, and Martha Custis Washington cried.

She was lonely and tired and she wanted her husband back, and her mind and skin were crawling with the memory of those empty days in _his_ house, in _Daniel’s_ house. It had never been theirs; the whole time they were married, she had felt like a guest in that house.

Mount Vernon was theirs, hers and George’s together. They had built up this home together from shambles; they had refurbished the house and the property and at the end of the days they had sat on the piazza and watched the colors that the setting sun cast on the Potomac and Martha had been _happy_.

She had dedicated decades of her life to this house, to their life together, and now standing in it, the home that was supposed to be the symbol of _them_ , she felt uncomfortable in her own skin.

And she _hated it_.

She stood in the kitchen and looked at the silent house, and thought of Alex upstairs, and George in D.C., or maybe on the road coming home already. _Home, home, home, home_.

She heard the front door open. George was back for the weekend. She looked at the clock. Nine. Average.

 _Average. Average for him to get home at nine o’clock on a Friday night and not even say hello after not speaking to you all week._ Something snapped inside her, and she put down the sponge and the pan and wiped her hands on a dish towel and then all of a sudden she was standing at George’s office door as he meticulously unpacked his briefcase onto his desk, spreading out papers. And then he looked up and smiled at her.

She looked at him, long and hard, and part of her was happy to see him, that same part that always felt _right_ with her George, the part that always felt pulled together and saved.

But the majority of her screamed frustration and exhaustion and said _he’s been ignoring you all week and now he comes home and **smiles at you?**_

Still, she half expected her usual greetings to George at the end of a long week ( _good evening, welcome home, how was the week_ ) to leave her mouth. What came out was,

“So you’re back.”

George blinked at that, and, surprisingly quickly, she thought, considering the events of the past week, seemed to realize something was wrong.

“You’re upset,” he said, his brow furrowing with the words.

Martha scoffed, a dry, sarcastic sound that felt wrong even to her, but she felt everything from the past three weeks, the past _years_ , bubbling up inside her and pushing rational thought out of her head in favor of finally giving him a piece of her mind.

“What tipped you off?” she said drily, crossing her arms and staring him down. And he looked at her harder and his worried expression became colored with a little more sadness.

“Martha, you’ve been crying.” Her hand automatically went to her face and she pulled it away to find a smudge of eye makeup on it and a little residual moisture and something about that made her even _angrier_ and she snapped at him,

“Good of you to notice.” The small satisfaction that flashed through her at the look of hurt on George’s face made her sick, but she felt like she was on an irreversible collision course to this, like she couldn’t stop this even if she tried.

And George said, “Martha, what’s wrong?”

And a part of her was screaming, _no, stop, don’t do this,_ but all the same she threw her arms in the air and said with exasperation,

“I suppose I could hardly expect you to know, ignoring me the way you do!”

“Martha, I’m not ignoring you –”

She didn’t even let him finish. “Then what do you call this week?! _Every time_ I get on the phone you tell me you have something else to do! Even after work hours! I can’t even get your attention on weekends when I am _standing in your office_ , George, for God’s sake, _what do you think I’m upset about?_ ”

His face was a calm mask under her onslaught and she wanted him to say something _real_ back to her; she wanted to be _done_ with the excuses about work and time commitments. She wanted – she didn’t know what she wanted and George, George –

“Martha, it – it comes with the territory, you know how much work I have –”

“Goddammit, George!” She whirled on him and saw the look of shock on his face; she knew she hardly ever shouted, but she was angry and stressed and a little bit scared, in all honesty, and she continued, “People who frequent C-Span see you more than I do these days! More than your own wife, George!” Just saying it out loud made the anger flare up in her again, and blood and adrenaline pulsed hot in her veins.

“I told you that I’m busy, Martha, being a Senator –” And she couldn’t stand hearing him say it –

“Don’t you lecture me about how busy you are!” She cut him off, fully shouting now and letting all the hurt and loneliness and frustration of the past weeks, months, years spill out of her and aiming it firmly at her husband. “Do you think I don’t know?! Do you think I don’t pay attention?! You are _important to me_ , George Washington, and I pay attention when you talk, which is a practice that I think goes largely unreciprocated in this marriage, so don’t you come in here and tell me how goddamn ‘busy you are!’”

“You’re not being fair –”

“I don’t give a _damn_ what you think is ‘being fair,’ George! Do you think it’s _fair_ that you have practically rendered me single mother these days?! I never see you anymore, we barely speak, I feel like I don’t even know you! And now that we have Alexander in the house, do you think you can just fuck off and have me handle everything in this family?!” She saw flinch at her words, but she barreled on. “What happened to my husband who wanted to have a family with me?”

She shouldn’t have said what she said next, but it came bursting out of her in a moment of anger and frustration and downright _fear_ , and she shouted at her husband,

“I didn’t marry you for a repeat of Daniel, George! Sometimes I think you’d rather not be a part of this family at all!”

George whirled around, true anger finally showing on his face and he shouted back at her –

“ **Well maybe you’re right!** ”

It hit her like a brick wall, like a dead-on collision, stopping her in her tracks and giving her whiplash and leaving everything inside of her cold and hollow and she gasped and felt the tears come and _Maybe you’re right_ oh god she hadn’t known –

“You… you could have told me how you felt I – I thought you were excited…” she stammered and trailed off, and wondered quietly how she could have read George so poorly, how she could have gotten so far off track as to not just see, and family was important to her, she’d thought it was important to him too –

“Martha, please,” she heard George say, and his voice was shaking and desperate, “I… I didn’t mean that, I…” There was a moment where she turned around and the two of them just stood, staring at each other, in shocked silence. And George’s face was surprised and sad and terrified too.

“Can we just…” he started, seeming to grasp for words. “Can we just sit down and just talk for a while, dear? Please?” Martha nodded, sitting down on the office couch and allowing her husband to sit beside her, feeling the cushions move under his weight.

They were quiet for a long time after that, neither looking at the other and both shocked and tired and a little ashamed.

George’s hand brushed against hers, and she laced her fingers into his, something shaking loose inside of her at the feel of his touch, his sincere affection through the feeling of his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry,” George whispered, “I’m _so_ _sorry_ , Martha, for… all of that, I just…” his hand tightened around hers, “It’s just hard, I – I’ve been…” and she didn’t have to have him say it to know what he meant. _I’ve been scared_.

“God, George. So have I,” she added quietly, turning to look at his grave face in profile, noticing the line of exhaustion along his brow, and yes, this was the look of her George when he was afraid. “Of course I have, I…” It was funny how their words fell away in light of this new role in their world, these new expectations and new revelations that came with the boy upstairs, and the silence in the room was thick and buzzing with nervous energy as Martha thought of that boy who was now their son.

“What are we doing?” George whispered, defeated, into the space of that empty office with the light spilling in through the windows and showing the dust that floated and spun through the air. And Martha felt his question sink into her soul and her bones and she answered as honestly as she could.

“I don’t know.”

And she didn’t. And they didn’t. They had never been parents before and how did they even know they could be? How did they know they could give Alexander everything he needed? How would they keep him safe and healthy and foster every wonderful quality in him and help him grow into an adult as the years went by? It wasn’t as though she didn’t expect the responsibilities of parenting; she had run them each over in her head a thousand times over. But now, sitting here with them laid out in front of her, they all seemed so much larger and more frightening than before, and she didn’t know what to do.

Her husband sighed, running the hand that wasn’t in her grasp over his face. He turned to her on the couch angling his body and putting his other hand over their clasped hands so that he was holding hers in both of his.

“I do want a family with you.” He said definitively, clearly, fixing his eyes to her with his quiet intensity that always made her remember _why_ , “And I love you, Martha , you – you know I love you, more than anything you’re –” he paused, seemingly unable to hold onto what he wanted to say. But Martha knew. She squeezed his hands and nodded and she _knew_. And George took another deep breath and continued, sure as he ever sounded,

“I want this with you. I always have, Martha, of course I have, it’s just that it’s…” he had never had much of a way with words, she thought fondly. He had an enormous heart and a brilliant mind and he couldn’t just _speak_ for the life of him. And he looked off to the side while Martha took her other hand and rubbed his arm comfortingly. “You know it’s hard for me,” he said so quietly she barely heard it, “the whole…subject of children and…and now he’s here and it’s all… it’s so much.”

She rarely saw him vulnerable like this, and while she knew in her heart how tender a man he was deep down, it took these moments to remind her of how many sides her George had. She knew what he was referring to. She ached to hear him allude to it like that but not say it, like he was still ashamed, and she vividly remembered one night, when their relationship was still young, and George huddled into himself on one side of the bed, and how scared he’d been, and her, rubbing his back and telling him _it’s okay, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s alright_ in his ear. It was the first time she had seen him cry.

“I know, George.” It was like that now, George looking away from her and Martha rubbing comforting circles on his upper arm. “I’m terrified too. It’s been almost three weeks, and we haven’t had a meaningful conversation with him once.” She heard him sigh and her eyes fell into the distance and her hand stilled, “I sit here,” she whispered, “and I think about how different it all is, how none of it is what I expected, and I wonder…” She felt like a great weight suddenly dropped onto her shoulders, “I wonder if I’m a bad parent. If I was ever…”

She stopped, sighing, and reined herself in. It wouldn’t do any good for either her or George to get into that, to bring themselves down with thoughts like that. They had to focus on each other now. They had to focus on Alexander.

She squeezed her husband’s hand and turned back toward him, making him turn too and look her in the eye. “Of course it’s hard,” she said, keeping her eyes on his and hoping she could convey everything, all the love and trust she had for him, all the hope she had for the three of them. “Of course we’re going to make mistakes but I want us to do it _together_.”

George’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her close into his chest, his cheek resting on her head and the warmth and solidness of him pressed against her and she had _missed_ it; he was home on the weekends, she saw him often enough but she _missed_ him all the same and sitting there on the couch in George’s office in his arms suddenly felt like the most wonderful thing in the world.

“And he’s such a wonderful boy, George.” She murmured into his chest. “He _needs_ a chance to have a real childhood; he needs to feel safe and loved and,” her tone turned a little bit desperate, “I can’t do that without you, and… and if you really don’t want to do this, I suppose we can –”

“No,” he interrupted her firmly, quickly, “I want to do this. I do want this and I want it with you, Martha, I promise, I’m just a little… scared is all.” It was still so hard for him to say that and she could tell and stretched up to kiss him lightly.

“Me too,” she said, and I was true. “But we can do it. Together.”

And somehow it seemed to her that they could, that they would be fine. In that New Year’s resolution way, she felt shining and hopeful and she knew that it might fade tomorrow and it would still be hard when they left this shining little bubble of George’s office and their embrace, but she felt that they could do it, they could make this happen, the two of them. They’d make the world better for that boy upstairs, they’d keep him safe and give him what he needed and be better parents than they ever thought they’d be.

She wasn’t going to give up on him.

George pulled back from the long hug and took her hands in his again.

“Do you want me to start coming home during the week?” he asked, running his thumbs over the back of her hands in little circles.

“I’d like that, if you think it’s possible.” She responded, and _this_ was what they were good at, sitting down and talking. Compromising. Partners. This was why she had wanted to be with him forever. “And… I think it would be good for Alex too, to see you more often.”

“Of course,” George replied. “I’d have to transfer some more work to my staff, but I can manage that.”

“The commute will be longer.” She said, as if he didn’t know, as if she had to remind him of the difficulties, why he started staying in the city anyway. It was her insecurity on the matter giving one last kick before she squashed it for good, and George smiled.

“I know,” he said. “It’s worth it.”

 _You’re worth it_ , he was saying, and Martha’s heart swelled and she could only say one thing to something like that.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry for doing this to you these last weeks. And, you know… longer than that.” He was embarrassed again, probably embarrassed with himself, and he shouldn’t be, Martha thought. _It takes two to tango_.

“I know this is hard,” she said, “I forgive you. And it’s partially my fault, I should have talked to you instead of… bottling things up, and whatnot.” She made an awkward gesture with her hands at that, thinking about how she had let those negative feelings fester in her instead of just _talking to her husband_.

“Martha Washington, bottling up her emotions?” George said in mock surprise, “I’m shocked.”

“Oh hush, you.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, “Love makes fools of us all.”

“Love, Mrs. Washington?” One eyebrow raised, false skepticism on his face, and Martha liked it when he called her that, _Mrs. Washington._ She hadn’t enjoyed being a “Mrs.” before she married him, and it was still a beautiful feeling, to remember how things had changed.

“Yes, love. For the both of you.” And they both smiled at that, and she looked down at their clasped hands and felt the quiet resolution settle in her. “I’m going to help this boy, George,” she said firmly, “no matter what it takes, I’m going to make sure he’s happy here.”

He kissed her forehead and answered, “God forbid anyone stand in your way.”

She knew that from him, it meant, _I’m with you_.

*~*~*~*~*

The Washingtons were fighting.

Alex could hear it from downstairs, the muffled sound of Mrs. Washington’s voice, agitated, and then the Senator’s back, a bit pleading, and tired, and then her again, more upset, and then the Senator’s again, and then she was shouting and Alex felt the cold anxiety that flooded through him at the familiar sound.

He wondered what they were fighting about.

He wondered if it was him.

He remembered the uncomfortable night at the dinner table the week before, and the distance between the Washingtons’, so different from his first night in the house when they seemed to light up at the sight of each other. And the way Martha Washington had seemed just a little more antsy all week, just a little busier, how she still smiled at him the same way but when her phone would chime and she would sigh at it in exasperation, putting it face down before picking it up again and answering several minutes later.

He should have expected a fight, but after weeks of calm in the Washington home he guessed he had been lulled into a false sense of security. If this told him anything, it was that nowhere was safe, no matter what he believed.

A few minutes later everything was quiet from downstairs and Alex was quietly glad he hadn’t heard the tell-tale sounds of anything being broken or thrown, hadn’t heard any doors slam, and he fervently hoped that everything could just be okay.

To say that he was cautious when he was called down for dinner that evening would be an understatement. He was terrified.

But when he sat down to eat the atmosphere around the table was light and the Washingtons made polite and comfortable conversation with each other and occasionally with him, Martha reminding him of his interview and George looking at him warmly but with something else that Alex couldn’t define behind his eyes.

And Alex thought to himself that it wasn’t as though the fight hadn’t happened, but it was like they were almost… better off for it.

And if he thought _that_ was strange, well, he didn’t say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Well that was an adventure! Hope you enjoyed!  
> It's hard to find the time to write with school going on, but I was thinking of doing some oneshots for this verse. Interested? Let me know what you'd like to see!  
> As always comments make my days and I love to be bothered on tumblr!  
> And until next time, I am as always,  
> Your Desiree <3


	8. Alexander & Martha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex's interview goes well until it doesn't. Poor Martha Washington is just trying her best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy double update, Batman! This is my present to you lovelies, Thanksgiving break does wonders for our writing productivity. Enjoy this fresh heaping helping of angst.

Monday afternoon found Alex in the passenger seat of Martha’s car, gliding down the roads to Jackson, D.C.

“It’ll just be a tour of the school and a few quick questions from Mr. Franklin.” Mrs. Washington said calmly. “There’s nothing to be worried about, I promise.” Alex hadn’t said he was worried. “Mr. Franklin just wants to get to know you a little bit so he can make sure you’ll have a good experience at his school, if you end up attending.”

Alex fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. Mrs. Washington had asked over the weekend what he’d be wearing to the interview and when Alex said he didn’t know, she had just nodded her head and said it was something to consider. That afternoon she had knocked on his bedroom door, new shirt, pants, and shoes in hand. She knew his size, somehow, and the clothes fit.

But he hadn’t wanted them, and that was the thing. He hadn’t asked for them, and he hadn’t wanted them, and he sat on the edge of his bed staring at the garment bags that Martha hung on his doorknob, before leaving the room, notebook in hand.

His old spiral, not the new notebook. That one sat far back in the bottom desk drawer where Alex wouldn’t have to think about it, note still firmly pressed in the cover. He used the pens, because he’d run out of others. But every time he looked at the beautiful leather notebook he was confused and sick to his stomach.

He’d left his room, notebook in hand, before realizing he didn’t have anywhere he knew to go. The only places he’d been in the Washington home were his room, the library, and downstairs.

And then he’d thought that if Mrs. Washington had bought him clothes that he didn’t want, then surely he could go snooping through her house without her explicit permission.

There was a room next to Alex’s, that he already knew, just another bedroom like his own that had been deserted for who knew how long.

There was a door next to that one, hugging the corner, and Alex was expecting a closet or something but instead when he opened he found a set of stairs leading up to a clean, surprisingly bright attic-like space. One side had doors leading to empty rooms, natural light filtering in through the peaked windows. The other side was a wide, empty expanse, the windows covered by dusty curtains and boxes spread out across the floor and stacked by the wall. And in the center of house there was a ladder, and above the ladder there was a trap door.

So he’d gone up and unlatched that door and pushed it open and found himself inside a tiny room, hardly a room at all, just an old wooden floor and the trapdoor and a tiny octagonal enclosure with windows on all sides.

He loved it the moment he stood up.

It was the top of the house, and Alex briefly remembered seeing it when he took in the Washington home for the first time, even sort of remembered thinking it was a ridiculous addition, something only the exorbitantly rich would have on their home, because whose house had a _fucking bell-tower_?

It was different being inside.

The place was light and airy, and standing up he had a full, 360 view of the grounds around the home, the way the hill behind the house sloped down to the river, the vast green expanse of the lawn and the drives in front of the Washington home. The grilles on the windows divided the afternoon sun streaking in and their shadows checkered the floor. The floor itself was simple wood, obviously old, but there was one out-of-place outlet on the small expanse of wall beneath the windows, and the floor was taken up almost entirely by one large, plush cushion that Alex promptly flopped down upon and opened his notebook.

And he wrote, and the sunlight reflected off of the bright paper, only a few sheets left in the book, and everything felt bright and real and the sun shone warm on his neck and made his dark hair hot, made all of him hot because there was no air conditioning, and the feel of it reminded him of better days, of sunny walks in Central Park, hands swinging between his mom and dad’s.

For a few hours that afternoon, he had escaped everything that was bogging him down about the Washington home, and he let the brightness of the window-room, the highest place in the house, carry him away.

“You know, George and Mr. Franklin go way back.”

And suddenly he was snapped back into the motion of Mrs. Washington’s car, to road noise, to an expensive, starched white button-down shirt, and thank _god_ Mrs. Washington hadn’t made him wear a tie, and the slowly churning anxiety in the pit of his stomach as the two of them hurtled toward D.C.

“George met Ben when he was still in the military, I don’t remember how. They’ve been distant friends for years.” She continued, smiling. “Ben was living abroad in France for a while; I can’t believe we didn’t even know that he had moved to D.C., and is running a school, no less!” She laughed brightly, “One of the most brilliant men I’ve ever met, Alex, and one of the most eccentric, too.” She laughed again. Alex wished she would stop.

“I think this will be a wonderful school for you, Alex.”

Alex was sure that it most certainly would not.

* * * * *

He assumed that the man standing out front when he and Mrs. Washington pulled up was Mr. Franklin, and Mrs. Washington confirmed it when she stepped out of the car, Alex trailing behind her.

“Benjamin,” she said warmly, clasping his hand in a firm handshake, “it’s wonderful to see you again.”

Mr. Franklin was taller than both Alex and Mrs. Washington. He wore a pristine charcoal suit, streamlined and professional, but broken by a brightly colored tie. His hair was even longer than Alex’s, solidly gray. Small glasses perched on his nose, and he carried some weight on him.

 The man chuckled good-naturedly as he and Mrs. Washington separated. “And you, Martha,” he said. “I didn’t think you and George of all people would be sending a student here.”

Mrs. Washington’s smile froze in place for a moment before she let out a slightly-forced laugh, just saying something vague again about it being a long time. Then she looked toward Alexander and beckoned him over. For a minute, he thought they’d forgotten him.

“Benjamin,” she said, “this is Alexander, our foster son.” Alex bit his tongue to keep from snapping at her _I’m not your_ son. “Alexander,” Mrs. Washington gestured toward Mr. Franklin, “this is Benjamin Franklin, head of the Jackson International School.”

Mr. Franklin held out his hand, and Alex hesitantly shook it. God, he felt out of his depth. “It’s good to meet you, Alex. I’m glad to hear that you’re interested in Jackson International.” Alex wanted to correct him, _I’m not_ , but Mr. Franklin was already turning away and leading them into the school and he didn’t know what he could do but go along with it.

The school was much of what Alex expected. Pristine hallways and clean architecture with enormous windows everywhere. State of the art interactive technology in every classroom. The whole place practically _dripped_ with money and Mr. Franklin prattled on about student opportunities and _training young people for life as global citizens_ and Alex thought he might gag.

The tiny part of him that was internally nerding the fuck out at the sight of a school like this was quickly squashed by his cynicism. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of enjoying this.

“We encourage all of our students to be educated in multiple languages from a young age, and we routinely have our older students take history and literature courses in a second language of their choice.” Alex perked up slightly at that in spite of himself, and Mr. Franklin asked, “have you taken any languages during your time in school, Alex?”

He hesitated before answering, hyper-aware of both Mrs. Washington’s and Mr. Franklin’s eyes on him. But he eventually pulled himself a little taller and said,

“I’m fluent in Spanish and French. I grew up speaking them and in school I took a few classes but I already kind of… knew the material…?” he trailed off, searching Mr. Franklin’s face, which was a careful mask before the man cracked a small smile.

“That’s very impressive, Alex,” he said, “to already be trilingual at your age.”

Alex felt a small part of himself glow at the praise, and another part flare at the condescension that always came with such compliments, but he shrugged and looked at the ground.

They went on with the tour.

Close to an hour later they were sitting in Mr. Franklin’s office, the man behind his desk and Alex and Mrs. Washington sitting side by side across from him. Mr. Franklin had finished giving them his general information about the school, and he leaned back in his chair and said,

“So, Alex, tell me about some of your interests.”

So this was the “interview” that Mrs. Washington had been talking about, and he knew she’d said there was nothing to be nervous about, but damn if Alex wasn’t nervous. _Interests?_ Alex didn’t have interests. Most of his time over the last two years was spent just trying to stay alive. Alex looked, panicked, at Martha, who simply nodded at him in what she must have thought was an encouraging manner. And Alex looked back at Mr. Franklin, who still had that same expectant smile on his face.

“I – um,” Alex stammered a little, “I like… to write a lot?” It came out as a question and Mr. Franklin raised his eyebrows, and Alex felt something break inside of him, something like the need to prove himself, to get these people not to look down on him anymore. And he said very quickly, “I write. And I read a lot, too, anything I can get my hands on, really…” he trailed off at the look on Mr. Franklin’s face, something like surprise, but he wasn’t sure if it was good or bad and he saw the man trade a look with Mrs. Washington and that sent a flash of annoyance through him before Mr. Franklin spoke again.

“Do you have any subjects that you’ve found you’re particularly interested in?”

Alex didn’t know. He had been in the system for over two years; most of his education between ages twelve and fourteen was sporadic at best, hopping from school to school and family to family, similar curriculum but different classes and he was mostly just focused on staying _alive_ and doing it right and it wasn’t like he’d had time to _specialize_ or anything.

He was suddenly struck with the feeling of just how out of place he was in this office, in tis interview, in this school. Alex didn’t have the wealthy education behind him. He hadn’t had the opportunity to focus on school and find out _what he was interested in_. He remembered his mother and father working day and night to support him, he remembered the school he went to in the city: old, worn textbooks and desks, teachers who came and went and half the time looked exhausted to the point of collapse. He remembered every penny saved for every book he had as a child, how his mother would sit with him and read, how she’d try to help him with his homework until she couldn’t work it out anymore and she’d apologize, _mijo, mama doesn’t know anymore. You’re so smart, querido, you know so much already, you work so hard, mi vida_.

And he suddenly, vividly hated all of it, everything that Mrs. Washington said about the school _being a good fit for you_ and Mr. Franklin in his suit with his hands folded on his desk, and the school’s high ceilings and tall windows and pristine floors and everything about it because Alex _didn’t belong here_ and it was all so fucking _fake_.

He didn’t go to fancy private schools.

He didn’t get to have the internship opportunities and the AP classes and the _academy of higher learning_ and the fact that these people thought he could just come in and masquerade as someone with that kind of life made him sick.

He hated them and he hated everything they stood for.

And Mr. Franklin was still looking at him with that same goddamn expectant expression and _are there any subjects you’re interested in_ and Alex replied.

“No.”

Let them deal with that. Alex wasn’t going to play their games.

Mr. Franklin exchanged an uneasy look with Mrs. Washington and _did they really think Alex didn’t see that?_ And moved on with his interview questions.

The rest of the interview went that way, Franklin prodding about Alex’s past, his aspirations, his hopes and strengths and weaknesses, and Alex giving noncommittal answers and generally doing his best to portray an attitude of complete and utter disinterest. He could feel the tension of the adults in the room, could feel them wondering what to _do_ with him and he reveled in this small act of rebellion.

The Washingtons and this man would not shove him into their box of expectations, no.

Eventually they wrapped it up, Franklin making some disingenuous comment thanking Alex for his interest and telling him when he could plan on hearing from the school, etc. He asked Mrs. Washington to stay behind and so Alex sat outside the office in an uncomfortable chair and hearing only the sounds of the interview inside the room. He didn’t even try to pay attention to what they were saying. He didn’t care. In his mind, he knew that they would never let him in with that interview. He could still foil the Washingtons’ plans from the inside. All of them.

For a moment he thought that perhaps they’d send him away if he was like that. He thought about losing that house on the hill and the view of the river in the afternoon, and the comfortable bed and the sunny window-room…

 He pushed those thoughts away with no small effort, and his eyes flicked to the office door and away again, and his heart began to beat faster and he thought to himself _it’ll be fine, Alex, it’s okay_.

He wondered if he had gone too far.

He wondered if Mrs. Washington was mad.

_Of course she knew what you were doing Alex, of course she knew it was on purpose and now you’ve ruined everything and they’re going to –_

_They’re going to –_

He didn’t know what they were going to do.

Three weeks in the Washington home without so much as an unkind look from either of them, and Alex had already forgotten how to do this.

Foster homes came with calculated risks. Which rules could he break and still avoid the worst punishment; how far could he push to get the foster parents to leave him alone but not send him back _or worse_.

A few times he’d pushed too far.

He’d gotten used to assessing personalities, gauging reactions. He grown accustomed to analyzing each foster parent to know just how bad things would get if he didn’t live up to their expectations. It didn’t stop him from doing things wrong; he was still impulsive and his fists and words would fly before his brain could catch up with them, but he’d gotten good at anticipating the _after_. At knowing whether he had to get away for a few hours, or whether it that would only make it worse.

He _didn’t know_ with Mrs. Washington.

Every foster parent had their breaking point, no matter how kind they were at the beginning. They’d be kind until you weren’t, and then they’d turn. It happened every time. It happened Every. Single. Time.

Alex didn’t know what to expect when Mrs. Washington walked out of that office. He didn’t know how to prepare, how to brace himself for what came next.

He’d thought it a blessing when the Washingtons’ gave him so much time to himself but now, now he saw the horrible way that alone time would backfire, and how in just a moment Mrs. Washington would come through the office door and Alex wouldn’t know _what to do_.

And he sat in terrified silence and felt the fear of what was coming run through his veins and he waited.

He waited and the room was too quiet, the air too cold, the chair too stiff. He waited and he waited and he waited and waited, waited, waited –

Until he heard the mechanisms in the door click and Mrs. Washington’s voice saying,

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Franklin.” And he felt her turn toward him more than saw it, and heard her say, “come on, Alex. Let’s go home.”

* * * * *

The car ride back to Mount Vernon was tense and horrifyingly uncomfortable. Mrs. Washington said nothing, just kept her eyes focused on the road as they took the winding drive away from the city. She had turned on music, some folk-rock sounding thing with female voices and guitar and in the back of Alex’s mile-a-minute mind, some part of him observed that it fit with the scenery of the trees and the river and the sunset filtering in between.

The majority of his brain was consumed with thoughts of what he would do when they got home.

_When you get back to the Washingtons’ house, Alex,_ he corrected himself. _That’s not your home_.

_How could you have been that stupid?_ He thought. Of course Mrs. Washington knew what he had been doing. She had wanted him to go to that school, and Alex had just purposely bombed the interview and she was going to be _mad_.

It also wasn’t a good sign that she hadn’t said anything since they got in the car. Silence never bode well in foster parents.

Maybe he should have been paying closer attention to the Washingtons silence over the past few weeks.

He wondered how long he had until they made him leave.

He wondered if they wouldn’t. If they’d just do something worse.

He thought of Senator Washington’s solid frame and Mrs. Washington casually throwing things around about _when George was in the military_ , and –

No. They wouldn’t. The Washingtons weren’t like that.

The thing was, he thought, as the car travelled ever onward down the roads back to the Washington house, he didn’t really know if he wanted to leave.

Senator and Mrs. Washington were kind to him, and he loved the library and everything in it, and even with everything he’d found a strange sort of peace in their house, where he wasn’t constantly worrying about other kids coming after him, where he was allowed to just disappear and pursue his own interests without that constant, low, underlying fear.

He hadn’t even realized that fear was gone until now, with it creeping slow and cold into the pit of his stomach and the thing was he knew it was _his fault_.

_You ruined it, Alex_. _You ruined it just like you always do. And now the Washingtons hate you and they’re going to send you away and you failed them, Alex._

The thoughts stopped him short and he thought back and _what the fuck?_

Why the fuck did he care what the Washingtons even thought of him? Just an hour ago he was sure that they were using him for a political plot. Just an hour ago he was sitting in Mr. Franklin’s office being talked down to and thinking that he’d like nothing more than to go away and never see Martha Washington ever again.

_It’s all a part of it, Alex_ , the voice in his head told him, _they’re kind to you, they make you **care** about them, and that’s when it starts to go bad._

Right when he couldn’t leave, right when he didn’t want to, that’s when they’d spring the trap on him.

That’s what they were doing right now.

He wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of that success of changing him and using him and not facing any consequences. He’d get himself out, he’d find a way, he’d do it, he would, he would, he _would_ , he’d show them.

He’d show them both.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Martha knew nothing of the thoughts that went through Alex’s head as he sat on the opposite side of the car. She just drove, allowing the constancy of the road carry them away from the disastrous meeting with Ben Franklin.

She’d thought it was going well. She could tell that Alex liked the school, she saw the way his eyes lit up as they went around on the tour. She heard the shy pride in his voice when he talked about being fluent in _three languages_ , goodness that boy was brilliant and she glowed briefly with pride just hearing him acknowledge it.

Then the interview. That was where things went wrong.

Martha couldn’t understand what had happened. It was like someone had flipped a switch inside the boy and suddenly all of his brimming-over nervous energy and concealed passion was shut off. He was apathetic and borderline disrespectful and Martha just couldn’t understand it.

She could feel Alexander shifting beside her in the car, could practically feel the nerves pouring off of him in waves and she wanted to _do something_ but it seemed as though everything she did was wrong.

She glanced over at Alex briefly to see his shoulders curled in in a mirror of what she had seen when he stood outside her door on the very first day she met him.

_Come on, Martha, **think**. _ She thought to herself, _what is he upset about_?

All she could think was that he was averse to attending school at all, but that didn’t make sense, from everything she’d seen Alex loved learning. She’d observed the books he pulled from hers and George’s shelves; she knew that he had been frequenting essays rather novels. She knew he loved writing from Kitty, she’d seen his test scores. She’d seen tiny glimpses of passion when he talked about the library in their home and when he talked to Franklin about his “essays.”

A boy _that_ excited about learning wouldn’t resist school so completely.

So _why_ had he shut down like that?

She felt like her thoughts were going in circles and she felt stupid and frustrated and she wanted Alexander to be able to do well and be successful and happy but since the moment he’d arrived at their house Martha had been utterly _useless_ at every turn.

She looked over at the boy again as they pulled up to the front gates and she punched in the security code.

_Come on, Martha, you have to figure out what’s wrong. Alex needs you. He’s counting on you being able to figure these things out._

They pulled up the drive and Martha parked in the garage to the side of the house, one of the old outer buildings that had been converted during their remodeling. She and Alex walked along and went in through the kitchen door, and she saw that Alex was heading toward the stairs and she said,

“Before you go upstairs, Alex, can I talk to you a minute?” The boy froze in place, standing in the living room, but he didn’t turn around to look at her. He just waited. It was almost eerie.

Martha walked over to him in the living room, unsure of how to proceed. This was the same shut off Alex that she had seen in Mr. Franklin’s office, and she was worried about what that might mean.

She sat carefully down on one of the couches, her eyes never leaving the boy in front of her. Alex sat too, perching on the couch across from her like it was the most uncomfortable thing in the world, and Martha’s heart ached.

“Alex, I… just wanted to talk to you about the interview today,” she began. “It seemed as though you were… resisting answering Mr. Franklin’s questions. Would you tell me why?”

Alex shifted his weight on the couch, squirming under her gaze, and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Why does it matter?” she heard him say quietly.

Martha sighed, and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands.

“It matters, Alex,” she said in what she was praying was a warm tone, “because school starts in just over two weeks and need to find somewhere for you to go.” Alex’s face shut off even more and he looked down as he said,

“I don’t want to go to that school.”

Alright. At least that was something. She could work with that, even if she didn’t have a backup plan for Alex’s school yet.

“Alright,” she said slowly, “could you tell me why you don’t want to go there?” Alex shifted uncomfortably again, so Martha qualified, “just so I can have some guidance in looking for some other schools you might like.”

He jolted at that, and Martha saw a flash of something unpleasant in his eyes, and _no no no no_ that wasn’t what she wanted at all, and Alex looked at her said again,

“Why does it matter? I just don’t want to go there.”

“Alexander,” Martha began, on a quick and impulsive breath because this wasn’t getting her anywhere, “I know you’re an intelligent young man. George and I have seen your test scores and–”

“When?” Alex cut her off abruptly.

“When what, Alex?”

“When did you see the test scores?”

“Well – when Kitty came and spoke to us about you, of course,” Martha replies, somewhat taken aback at Alex’s sudden vehemence. “She left us with some information from your file and they were included with it.”

Alex scoffed. “Of course,” he muttered, and there was obvious anger underlying his tone and this wasn’t going anywhere good, _Martha fix it_.

She tried to divert the attention back to her previous point. “What I’m saying, Alex, is that you’re obviously very intelligent and I think that Jackson International would be a wonderful school. I just want to know why you’re so resistant to the idea of it.” The boy merely looked away from her petulantly, and Marth leaned forward even more, trying to keep his attention. “Alex, I know this is hard,” she pleaded, “but we need to talk about this. You’re our foster son now, and it’s George and my job to take care of you.”

Alex sat straight up at that, his face twisted into anger, and spat, “I am _not_ your _son_.”

This was bad, this was very bad, but she felt like if she backed off now, she’d never be able to talk to him about it again and she was getting desperate.

“But we are responsible for your welfare, Alex,” she countered, keeping her voice level. Maybe she could reason with him. _Please, please, please,_ she thought, _please work_.

“Why do you care?!” Alex suddenly shouted, standing abruptly, “why do you even care?!”

“Alex, please,” she pleaded again, standing slowly, “George and I just want to make sure you’re taken care of –”

“Well don’t!” Alex shouted, “I don’t belong to you and you’re not my fucking parents and I don’t want to go to your goddamn private schools where they teach in three languages and don’t want to be fucking ‘taken care of’!”

“Alex!” Martha cried, surprised.

“No!” The boy shouted again, and Martha saw fear in his eyes and her heart ached because _now you’ve done it, Martha_ , and Alex kept shouting, “I – I’m not going to stay here and let you do this to me!” Some part of her vaguely registered the kitchen door opening and George entering, “I’m not going to _sit_ here and let you and your fucking – your Senator husband use me!”

Martha was speechless, and she just took a step back and watched with some horror as Alex continued, nearly hysterical,

“I’m not some fucking political asset!” he yelled, “You can’t just look at a picture and some fucking test scores and think I’ll do whatever you fucking say, and I’m not here to complete your little ‘family values’ image and have everyone look at me and praise you for taking some goddamn ‘inner city’ kid into your house and ‘fixing’ him!” His whole frame was beginning to shake and Martha felt tears gathering in her eyes.

“You,” he screamed at her, “and your husband are goddamn hypocrite and liars and you,” he pointed at Martha, “are _not_ my **_fucking_ mom, so why don’t you just _leave me the fuck alone_!** ”

Martha brought a hand to her mouth and stepped backward, the back of her legs hitting the edge of the couch. Alex suddenly looked to his right, absolute _terror_ in his eyes, and Martha saw her husband standing at the threshold of the room, and then Alex _ran_ for the stairs and was gone.

Martha just collapsed onto the couch, putting her face in her hands and letting a broken sob tear its way out of her.

She really couldn’t do anything right, could she?

All she wanted was to make Alexander happy. All she wanted was for that sweet boy to have a good life and she _couldn’t do it_. She couldn’t provide for his education and she couldn’t even buy him decent set of _clothes_ without making him upset somehow and she felt like a failure all around.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably in the middle of her living room and she felt the couch dip and an arm snaking its way around her shoulders and pulling her into a solid body and _George_ , George was there and had one hand on her hair and was shushing her as she let her face turn into his shoulder and cried.

“It’s okay,” she heard him whisper, “It’s okay, Martha, it’s alright, love.”

She just cried harder because it _wasn’t_ okay and she was supposed to take care of Alex, that was her job, that was what a foster parent, _any_ parent, was supposed to do and all Martha could seem to do was screw it up time and time again.

“I’m a terrible mother!” she sobbed hysterically, gripping George’s arm tight, probably too tight, and she remembered Alex screaming her, _you are not my fucking mom_ , and her tears doubled as she thought that oh god, he was right, why did she ever think she could do this? She thought of Patsy, little Patsy and _I’m a terrible mother_ , and _you’re not my fucking mom_ , and she wept bitterly.

“No,” she heard George murmur, “no love, you’re a wonderful mother, you are.” His hand ran over her hair, stroking it smooth. “Alex just needs a little more time. You’re doing such a good job, Martha, really, you are.”

“Didn’t you hear him just then?” She looked up at her husband, looked him in his sympathetic brown eyes, and said, “he’s _miserable_ , George, he thinks he’s here because we’re _using_ him.” And that feeling of keen heartbreak that she hadn’t felt in so long crashed through her, because that sweet boy thought that they only took him for a political reason.

“I heard him,” George said gravely, “and we’ll just have to prove him wrong. Think about it, Martha,” he ran his thumb under her eyes, carefully wiping her tears away, “it’s probably good that he got that out of his system,” he soothed. “Just like you and me this week, remember? He was probably just bottling all of that up and needed to let it out. It’s alright. We can talk to him and figure all of this out. We’re not giving up on him, remember?”

Martha took a deep breath, turning George’s words over in her head. And another breath, and another, and another, slow, slow, slow. It was alright. George was right. George was thinking clearly and he was right.  Alex just needed to get some of his anxiety out, that was all it was. And they could talk to him, the two of them, together. They could work through this. _We’re not giving up on him_. She remembered Kitty coming to their door, nearly distraught, over a month ago, and telling them about a boy with nowhere else to go.

No, she wasn’t going to give up on him.

“Of course not, love,” George said, and Martha hadn’t realized that she’d spoken out loud, and her husband continued, “but that means we can’t give up on ourselves either. This is just a bump in the road, we’ll figure it out.”

Martha sat up, wiping her eyes. “You’re right,” she said, “of course you’re right, I just…” she trailed off.

“It’s fine,” George said, squeezing her shoulder. He looked over her shoulder to the front hall and the stairs. “Now I need to go check on Alexander,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “are you okay to stay down here? I’ll make sure he’s okay and see if I can get him to come down here for us to all talk about this reasonably, alright?”

Martha nodded, straightening her clothes, running her hands through her hair “That sounds good, yes,” she said, her voice still catching a bit and she cleared her throat. “I think I might go make some tea or… or something.”

George nodded, pulled her in for one more hug after they both stood. “I love you,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head before he was off, heading up the stairs.

And Martha walked into the kitchen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worry not, my dears, all will be well. The next chapter they're all going to sit down and talk about their feelings, I promise.  
> Me to myself: Desiree you can't self-indulgently write everything from Martha's perspective.  
> Myself: Fucking watch me  
> Like where this is going? Want to see more? Leave a comment if you feel so inclined. Thanks again for the support and the reads, and as always, I am,   
> Your Desiree <3


	9. Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to turn a corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff. fluff. fluff. this is all fluff. none of you are free of fluff.
> 
> Okay so I know it took me a long time to churn this one out but it's 6000 words I hope you are appeased.  
> Only like 5 more days of finals and I will be FREE.  
> Enjoy, my lovelies, this one's for all of you who are dealing with the end of semester stress as well.

Alex yelled without thought and without care. “You and your husband are goddamn hypocrites and liars and you,” now pointing at Martha, and paying no mind to the look on her face, “are _not_ my **_fucking_ mom, so why don’t you just _leave me the fuck alone_!** ”

The silence that followed was thick and oppressive and Alex could already feel the hoarseness in his throat and the tears gathering in his eyes and Mrs. Washington covered her mouth and staggered backward to the couch behind her and Alex looked around and caught sight of Senator Washington in the doorway from the kitchen and shrank back in terror because oh _god_ what had he _done_ , and fear, frigid and quick, shot through his veins, and then he was running, he was running away and everything was a terrifying blur.

He found himself in the window-room, trapdoor closed and the sunset light casting gold across the sky and through the windows and throwing funny shadows around. And Alex leaned back against the wall with his knees pulled tight to his chest and put his head down and tried to remember how to just _breathe_.

Oh god oh god _oh god oh godohgodohgodohgod –_

He’d done it this time, he’d really fucked up and he’d ruined everything.

 _You are not my fucking mom_ he screamed that, _screamed_ it at Mrs. Washington, and it was true, she wasn’t and he missed his mámá. He missed her and he wanted to see her again, wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything, she’d always tried so hard and done so much and she always knew what to do, and now Alex was stranded in Virginia in a strange house with a strange Senator and his wife but he ruined it, he’d _ruined_ it and they were going to send him away and he was so, so far from home and he was never going to be able to go back and he’d be stuck here and he’d probably never get out and die here in the stupid fucking state of Virginia and he _wanted to go home he wanted his mámá_.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Alex gasped and shrank back against the wall at the sound and he wanted the sound to go away he _wanted everything to just go away –_

“Alex?”

It was Senator Washington’s voice and _no no no no no no_ , Alex had yelled at his wife, he had _yelled at Mrs. Washington_ and Senator Washington had _been there_ and _seen it_ and now he was coming up here and Alex had nowhere to go, Senator Washington with his large and imposing frame and his _military experience_ , oh _god_ and everything in him was _scared, scared, scared –_

“Alex, are you up here? Could you open the door please?”

No he couldn’t open the door because he couldn’t breathe and opening the door meant hurt, opening the door meant bad and he couldn’t do it he _couldn’t he couldn’t –_

“Alex,” came Senator Washington’s voice again and it sent a shudder through his whole body, “Alex, are you alright?” and Alex shook his head and his hair flew into his face and his hands flew into the strands and he bit his lip and his eyes stung and he couldn’t hear except for the blood pounding in his ears and he couldn’t see except for the soft beige of the cushion beneath him and the spots overtaking his vision, and he couldn’t feel but his head was dizzy and his brain was numb and everything was so much, too much –

The creak of the trapdoor opening felt like the loudest thing on the planet and Alex felt like he was shattering into a thousand pieces and gasped for breath and cowered against the wall and did his best to pull himself together and disappear from sight.

 A hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched violently and choked out a sob and then the hand was gone and was replaced by a voice,

“Alex,” it said, “Alex look at me, it’s alright son, you’re alright. Please, Alex, open your eyes, it’s alright,” and Alex didn’t know when he closed them but opening eyes meant hurt and he shook his head hard and a sob tore its way out of his throat and the voice was back, gentle but firm, “Alex, it’s alright. Take a deep breath son, just breathe.”

And son wasn’t right but Alex did as the voice said and took a long, shuddering breath in and “that’s good, Alex, that’s right, keep breathing,” and he did and pulled in another and another and another, long and slow, and the voice kept murmuring encouragements and the spinning in his head slowed and stopped and he felt so, so tired and everything was quieter than it had been before.

And Alex opened his eyes.

The window-room.

The soft cushion underneath him.

The wall against his back and the glass against the back of his head.

The setting sun almost gone.

Senator Washington mirroring him across the way, sitting the same way Alex was, with his knees tucked against chest as well, and silent. If Alex wasn’t so bone tired, he might have found the incongruence of the image of Senator Washington still in his suit pants and shirt and tie sitting on the floor like they were children funny. As it was, he sat in that little room, barely a room at all, and he watched Senator Washington with wide and tearful eyes for any movement, any sign of emotion. He didn’t even know when he started crying.

The silence stretched between them for a long time, Senator Washington with the same half-expression on his face as they sat in the same half-light, and Alex watching him with wary eyes and waiting for his next move, for him to yell and scream and for hurt.

But Senator Washington just sat still and Alex thought after a while that he didn’t _look_ like he wanted to hurt him, that he hadn’t moved his body out of that same curled-up position and that he wasn’t sitting on the cushion and that maybe the hard floor wasn’t good for his back.

That was thing for adults, right? Bad backs?

“Alexander?” came Mr. Washington’s voice, and Alex snapped his eyes back to the Senator’s face. “Are you alright?”

What the hell was he thinking? Of course Alex wasn’t alright, he’d just practically been having a fucking panic attack –

“What I mean, Alex,” the man clarified in the silence, “is are you hurt anywhere?”

Alex took quick stock of himself.

“I have a headache,” he croaked out, and his voice was hoarse and quiet and he cringed at the sound of it.

“Alright, Alex, we can get you something to help with that,” George said with a nod. “Are you able to breathe okay?”

Alex nodded. “Yes.”

“Good,” George said calmly.

Alex didn’t understand why Senator Washington didn’t seem upset.

“Aren’t you mad at me?” he whispered, half afraid to say it out loud because he wasn’t sure he even wanted to hear the man’s answer.

But Senator Washington just shook his head and said,

“No.”

“No?” Alex didn’t understand. He had yelled. Foster parents didn’t put up with disrespectful kids, they never had. And he had said… horrible things to Mrs. Washington, and about both of the Washingtons and _you and your husband are hypocrites and liars_ and he shouldn’t have said that, he shouldn’t have –

“No, Alex,” pulled him back into the world and out of his head and Senator Washington had stretched his legs out in front of him and they went halfway across the floor. “I’m not mad at you. And I can promise you that Martha isn’t mad at you either.” He looked at Alex and his eyes were softer, and Alex almost wanted to say it was like the way he looked at his wife, but it was different too, and it made Alex’s head swim a little and he felt warm and confused.

“But,” he protested, “I yelled at her, I – I said –” he couldn’t finish, he was ashamed of himself and tired and he didn’t want repeat the things he’d said out loud again because in the soft airy half-light of the window-room and he and Mr. Washington sitting on the floor and the memory of Mrs. Washington’s face as Alex said those things, he… he wasn’t sure if he really meant them. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about having said them in the first place.

And Senator Washington looked at him with those soft eyes and his mouth turned up into a half-smile. “Alex,” he chuckled, “Martha yelled at _me_ just the other day. People get angry and lose their temper sometimes. We understand that. We’re not going to punish you for it.”

“But I was…” Alex trailed off. He didn’t understand. No one had ever done this before, no foster family had ever not punished him for losing his temper, for yelling. No one had ever said that they _understood_ before. “I don’t understand,” he whispered, “I was disrespectful. I called your wife –” _you and your husband are hypocrites and liars and_ –

“Alex,” Mr. Washington said, very softly, and Alex thought he looked very sad, “It’s alright. Marth and I aren’t angry at you, I promise. We know you’re under a lot of stress, and sometimes all that tension just has to come out somehow. It’s okay. We just want to make sure you’re alright. We want to help you.”

Nobody had ever said it to Alex that way before. He’d never had a foster parent talk about yelling and losing his temper and getting angry as something that was okay, like it wasn’t a fault of Alex’s character. No one had ever said that it was a release of tension, but Alex thought about sitting in Mr. Franklin’s office, and in the car on the way back to the house, and on Mrs. Washington’s couches and feeling like if he didn’t do something he’d burst.

And he thought _yes, yes that_ and that maybe he was selling Mr. Washington a little short before.

But he still could feel his anxiety and skepticism bubbling in the pit of his stomach and he thought back to the last thing Mr. Washington had said about _we want to help you_ and he said very quickly,

“What if I don’t want your help? I mean,” he stammered, “how – how do I know that the things you think are going to help me are really going to help me how do I –” he could feel his breath shallowing out a little and spoke even faster, “how do I know I can trust you?”

Shit. _Shit shit shit_ that wasn’t what he meant to say. That was too much and too honest and too bare, and he didn’t want Senator Washington to know he felt that way. He didn’t want the man to pick him apart here and now, he wasn’t _ready_.

But the man just nodded slowly and kept his eyes on Alex and he didn’t _look_ angry and he didn’t look offended. He just spoke softly back, in smooth dulcet tones, “that’s a perfectly valid concern, Alex, thank you for asking me that.” _What?_ Alex thought in the pause between them, before Mr. Washington spoke again.

“I don’t know what experiences you’ve had at previous foster homes, Alex,” he said, and Alex felt a quick burst of panic, “but it’s alright if you don’t trust Martha’s and my judgement right away. We’re willing to wait until we can earn your trust.” He paused again, seeming to consider his words, and seemed cautious as he proceeded, “that being said, there will be things we need to move forward on, like school, and getting you some new clothes and things.” Alex fiddled uncomfortably with the collar of the dress shirt he was still wearing from the interview and didn’t say anything. He felt like he was supposed to fight, but the was here in the tiny window-room and he and Mr. Washington were sitting on the floor, and he didn’t know how to fight when the other man didn’t seem to have any fight in him.

“Alex,” Mr. Washington pulled his attention back, and was looking at him with sincere and grave eyes in the nearly dark room. “I know Martha and I haven’t done a very good job of communicating with you so far. And I’m sincerely sorry for that. But if you’ll work with us, we want to make sure that we do a better job from now on.” Alex looked on, wary.

“What do you mean?” he asked skeptically.

“I mean that you can come and say anything to us, Alex, and we’ll listen. We want your input on things like a choice of school. We want to get to know you. We can’t do what’s best for you if we don’t know anything about you, and getting your input is a part of that.”

No foster parent that Alex had ever had in his two years in the system had _ever_ told him something like that. When they said they wanted what was best for him, it had always been that they knew what was best for him, and he didn’t. No one had ever told him that he might know about himself. No one had ever told him that his opinions might be _valuable_.

“When you’re feeling uncomfortable about something,” Mr. Washington continued, “we want you to tell us why. If you need something, we want to know about it.” Alex shifted his weight uncomfortably and looked away because this conversation was already so far away from everything he’d experienced in the foster system and he wasn’t sure how to act. And a part of him was glowing at Mr. Washington’s words and wanted to say _yes, I can do that,_ and was thinking _this is how it’s supposed to be_ , but another part of him was scared and all of this honest talk was exhausting and Mr. Washington was essentially saying that it needed to be like this _all the time oh my god_.

“I know that’s hard, Alex,” he heard the man say. “I’ve been married for over a decade and it’s still hard for me to do this with my own wife.” Alex snorted with laughter before he caught himself, but Mr. Washington interjected, “no, Alex, by all means, laugh.” Alex looked up and the man was smirking a bit too, leaning back against the wall. “I’m a graduate of West Point and a United States Senator,” he said, smiling, “and what scares me the most is not nuclear annihilation or the future of this country; what scares me the most is talking to my own wife about my feelings. If that’s not laughable, I don’t know what is.”

And Alex did laugh, a small thing but before he realized it he was laughing in full, and it was absolutely his residual nerves and the terrifying tension and confusion inside him spilling out all at once, but he laughed until he cried and Mr. Washington smiled at him. And when he was done laughing the man spoke,

“Now I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but we need to go downstairs and talk to Martha.” Alex’s face immediately fell and felt himself being pulled back into that place of _no no no no_ but Mr. Washington reached out and grabbed his shoulder and that wasn’t good but the man squeezed and said, “Alex, it’s okay. We’re not mad at you, remember?”

“How do you know?” He whispered hollowly.

The man chuckled good-naturedly. “I’ve known Martha for a long time, son. Trust me, she isn’t angry with you, she’s worried. It’ll put her mind at ease to see you and talk to you. And besides, I think the three of us have a lot to talk about anyway.”

Alex didn’t want to talk about a lot, Alex wanted to go to bed, and he was about to say as much but… but Mrs. Washington’s face as she staggered away from his harsh words, and Mr. Washington coming upstairs to find him and not to yell at him but asking him if he was alright. And he weirdly felt that he owed them a talk at least, even if he didn’t trust their intentions yet and didn’t know if they were telling the truth and couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t all just one big trick to have him fall into their trap and be useful to them.

But he nodded, and Mr. Washington squeezed again.

“Alright, Alex,” he said, softly, “remember what I said. You can say anything to us, anything at all. No punishments for honesty. I promise.” He nodded again.

And just like that, something broke.

 _What if he’s telling the truth_?

What?

 _What if they really do just want to help you_?

The voice came out of nowhere and caught him entirely off guard and he sat there reeling as Mr. Washington pulled open the trapdoor and beckoned to the ladder and Alex descended into the attic amidst thoughts of _What if you need their help after all_?

And that was dangerous thinking; it was dangerous to trust. He pushed it out of him, solidly, firmly. But not before it snuck part of itself into a little corner of his mind and colored the rest of thoughts, and he and Mr. Washington left the respite of the little window-room and the airy twilight and went down the stairs into warmth and light and forward motion.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

When they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Washington was sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee mug in her hand and still in her slightly rumpled business clothes from the school visit. But the moment she saw Alex, her face twisted into something he couldn’t read, and she was up from the chair, and before he even knew it was happening, her arms were around him and he was looking over her shoulder and becoming well acquainted with the smell of her perfume. And then her voice was in his ear.

“It just occurred to me,” she murmured, still holding him tight, “that nobody’s hugged you in three weeks.” She pulled back and smiled at him, a small thing, almost tearful and _shit she’d been crying Alex you made her cry_ , and said, “I thought maybe something should be done about that.”

And Alex didn’t know what to say to that and shifted awkwardly and felt something hot like shame flow through him as he again thought about the fight, and the uncomfortable space between him and Mrs. Washington now, and even if he did feel as though he hardly knew her before, now it was so much worse now because he’d been cruel and he knew it.

And he whispered, “I’m sorry for what I said to you,” into the quiet of the house and Martha’s hand landed on his upper arm and squeezed and she said,

“It’s quite alright, Alex.”

And that was that. It felt like nothing at all but that was it, Martha drawing away from him and walking over to the kitchen island and everything that Alex had said and done was wiped away with a simple _it’s quite alright_.

It was… strange.

It was like Mr. Washington said, and she didn’t seem angry, didn’t look angry, and Alex went to sit on one of the high stools at the island and watched as Martha pulled down mugs from the cabinets as her husband took out a little bottle of Tylenol and laid two little pills down in front of Alex with a glass of water.

Right. For his headache.

And Mrs. Washington placed a mug of – tea, it looked like – in front of him and pulled a stool around the corner of the island where he could see her and then sat down. And Mr. Washington was sitting next to Alex and sipping at his tea and Alex wrapped his hands around his mug and felt the warmth seep into his hands and it grounded him a bit.

And this was okay. This could be okay.

“Alex?” Mrs. Washington said softly, and Alex looked up, “how are you feeling?” And Alex looked down.

Confused. Scared. Comfortable. Anxious. Lonely. _Safe_. Sore throat and aching head and heart pounding.

“I’m okay,” he said.

He definitely saw the Washingtons trade a look out of the corner of his eye, and if he didn’t say anything, it was for their sake, because… they seemed like they were trying, really trying, and even if it was only out of a place of selfishness… well. Maybe there was something to be said for the trying all by itself.

He had never in his two years thought of a couple like this, of a _foster family_ like this, never had this pull and this want to _trust_. It had been brewing in him for weeks, it was there just that very day when he put on the nice button-down shirt and let Martha drive him to the international school and tried, at least at first, to answer Mr. Franklin’s questions. That little nagging in the back of his mind that _maybe this could be good._

And then the other nagging, _this is going to be a disaster and you know it_.

Sitting there in the Washingtons’ kitchen he wondered if other people were always so at war with themselves and whether or not he might actually be crazy.

“Alexander, are you with us?”

He looked up at the two Washingtons, waiting and looking at him kindly. Normally that would send a spike of anxiety through him, to see foster parents looking like that, to realize he had drifted off and hadn’t been paying attention. It didn’t this time. Less of an anxiety flare, more of a flicker.

He nodded.

Martha did too, ran her hand along the counter. He saw the ring on her left hand sparkle as she tapped her fingers against smooth granite, nails clicking. A nervous habit?

“Alex,” she said again, then paused, searching for words. She looked right at him, taking a deep breath, “I’d like to apologize.” _What?_ “I’m afraid,” she said slowly, “I haven’t been a very good foster parent these last few weeks, and I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry I haven’t been more diligent, and I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of talking to you, and I’m sorry I went and scheduled that school interview without your permission. I… shouldn’t have done that. You’re an intelligent young man and I should have given you more of a chance to advocate for yourself.” She finished, and Alex looked at her, and blinked.

Because that was different.

Foster families didn’t apologize to him for supposed wrongs. They didn’t tell him they wished they were better foster parents unless it was “I don’t know _what_ I’m doing wrong,” and even then it always meant that Alex was wrong, that Alex was the one who wasn’t receptive enough to their agenda and their goals, that Alex was fucking up what could have been a perfectly good family.

When Mrs. Washington said it, it… didn’t feel like that. From her it felt genuine, and it felt genuine when Mr. Washington apologized upstairs and it was entirely against Alex’s better judgement but he thought that… maybe it was genuine after all.

And Mrs. Washington was looking at Alex almost hopefully and Alex found himself saying, “I don’t think you’re a bad foster parent.”

Mrs. Washington immediately startled, looking at Alex in what seemed like complete and utter surprise. Almost bordering on shock but not quite, and Mr. Washington looked surprised too, but that surprise was just barely colored with delight, and Alex felt like he was in control and he _liked it_.

So he continued with, “it’s better here than a lot of foster homes I’ve been in,” and he maybe kind of trailed off at the end as he realized what he was saying and what it implied and that the Washingtons would likely try to get him to tell them about those previous homes next and he didn’t want that, but Mrs. Washington just smiled at him, a smile that looked like it was going to take over her face whether she wanted to or not, and when she said,

“I’m glad to hear that, Alex,”

Her voice was enthralled and Alex absolutely believed that she was glad to hear that.

This was… okay. This wasn’t horrible, and if this was the beginning of “honest communication” or whatever Mr. Washington said…

Well… Alex could do that.

It was funny how much better he felt already, how George seemed to be right, and just the act of blowing up and yelling and throwing all of his anger and stress out into the air made him feel… lighter, somehow. The stakes felt lower. Things felt smoother.

He hadn’t felt like that in a long time.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t still worried; he was. But the worry felt smaller than before.

“Alex?” George was speaking now, looking at him with some concern, and Alex snapped out of his wandering thoughts and back into the present.

“Sorry,” he said, leaning forward, and taking a sip of his tea. “Where were we?”

The Washingtons smiled.

Alex could do this. He had it under control.

And then George looked at Martha, and Martha’s smile faltered.

“Alex,” she started, shifting on her stool. We’d like to talk to you about some of the things you said to me when you were… while you were…” she didn’t seem to be able to find a way to finish and shifted awkwardly again, George reaching out for her hand and holding on.

And Alex knew what she was talking about. And he wasn’t sure if he should wait for her to complete the thought or if he should just take it from there. But Martha pulled herself together.

“You said that… you thought we were using you, Alex.” And Martha’s face looked as sad and as pained as he’d ever seen her. “And if you don’t mind telling us, we’d like to know what made you think that.”

And Alex could just say no, and the Washingtons would probably leave him alone, and he wouldn’t have to tell them anything, but Martha’s and George’s face, and all the things they’d said to him for the last two hours or so and that little voice in his head telling him to give up and _trust_.

And Alex talked.

Alex talked and talked and talked and told them about the foster families who hadn’t valued him at all, and he told them about Kitty and about going to schools where the rich kids would scoff at him and spit at him and call him words like _bastard_ and _foreigner_ and about the group home where the older kids would look at him and see nothing but someone who could be easily abused, despite his fire and his fight.

He left some things out, the homes that had been particularly bad and anything about this life before the foster system. But still, it was more than he’d told anyone in a long time, and that was something.

And it felt good to let the words spill out of him like that, it was good to _talk to somebody_ and feel like they were listening. And the Washingtons seemed like they were listening, they kept their eyes on him the whole time. And sure, they looked concerned, and part of Alex was apprehensive as hell every time one of them made a move or nodded or anything. But they let Alex talk and talk, and he’d forgotten what those long rambles felt like, and he talked circles around the Washingtons for a long time.

He told them a little bit of his skepticism about being in a political home, watched as Senator Washington winced a little at it, but he just kept talking all the same. And when he finished he took a deep breath and just looked at them and watched them digest the information with grave expressions.

“Thank you for telling us, Alex,” Martha said simply, with a simple smile.

And then, surprisingly, it was Mr. Washington who spoke next.

“Alex,” he said, “I want you to know that we had no political intention in mind when we applied to be foster parents, that we never had anything of the sort through this whole… process,” he fiddled with his wedding ring while he said the next part. “You’re correct about one thing. The political climate of D.C. is very… intense, to say the least. We’ll do our best to keep you away from controversy, and if it ever becomes too much for you, we understand if you’d like to be moved to a different home.”

It seemed that tonight was a night of firsts, because Alex had never had a say in whether he would be moved into a new home before. Alex just nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed and all of a sudden, a little shy.

“That was part of the reason we thought the international school would be a good fit for you,” Mrs. Washington added, “because Phillip Schuyler’s girls already attend there, and because of the security capabilities.

“Security?” he questioned, suddenly, looking up in surprise.

Mrs. Washington shifted uncomfortably.

“Of course there are some… security concerns that come with you staying with us, Alex.” She said, “I’d hate to think that anyone might bring you harm as a way of getting to either George or me, but it’s something we have to consider anyway. The international school has handled similar cases in the past, and a private school allows for greater control over security, is all.” She looked at Alex and added, hurriedly, “We’d be able to make things work, elsewhere, of course, this just seemed like an obvious solution. Ad like George said, if any of this makes you uncomfortable and you’d like to be moved elsewhere, we’d… we’d understand.” Martha paused, gave a little cough, “it occurs to me that perhaps we should have told this to you from the beginning. I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you about all of this sooner.”

That was what really did it for Alex, thinking that all this time the Washingtons had been thinking about his _safety_ , that while he had been wondering how his presence in their lives would affect George’s career, they’d likely been worrying how George’s career would affect Alex, how it would make his life harder or somehow _less safe_.

And it struck Alex that as much as he felt like there wasn’t anyone in the world he could trust, a part of him thought that the Washingtons were too kind to be using him this whole time. Because between a notoriously troublesome orphan immigrant and a well-respected United States Senator, who would be believed if Alex complained about his life with the Washingtons? They could very well do anything to Alex, anything at all, and he’d have to put up with it, really. They didn’t have to be kind to him. They didn’t have to listen to him.

But they were anyway

And that was something.

“It’s fine,” he said absently. “I’m not… I’m not worried about the security thing, really.”

And the Washingtons nodded, and then they were all quiet and staring at each other and it was about to be terribly awkward…

And George’s stomach growled.

And then Martha was giggling, and Alex watched as her shoulders were set easier and she relaxed ever so slightly, and he hadn’t noticed her tension before but now watched as it drained out of her, and then George laughed too, sheepishly, running a hand over his face. And Alex? Alex smiled.

Because George and Martha Washington were _people,_ not just foster parents or Senators or housewives or activists. They were people too, and people first, and people before Alex walked through their front door and would be people after he inevitably walked out. And Alex…

Alex liked it.

And Martha took a breath and said brightly, “enough talk for now,” and looked at Alex and said, conspiratorially, “if we don’t get George something to eat soon, he’s liable to start whining. He’s insufferable when he’s hungry.”

And Mr. Washington rolled his eyes and grumbled something good-natured and indistinct as he slid off his stool as well. “I’ll call Fred.”

“Fred?” Alex asked.

“Our pizza guy,” Martha said nonchalantly, pulling a pitcher down from a high cabinet, and Alex noticed her using a step ladder and almost laughed, “we always have the same one deliver. Makes it easier to get through the front gate and all.”

“Speaking of which, Alex,” George called from the other room, where he was rifling through his briefcase, “it occurs to me that you haven’t seen much of the estate. If you’d like a look around the grounds sometime just let me know.”

“Careful, he’ll bore you to death,” Martha said from the fridge.

“I heard that, Mrs. Washington!” Called George from the other room again.

And Martha turned around and _stuck out her tongue_.

If Alex wasn’t already skeptical of the practicality of foster parents, he figured he might be after the Washingtons two-second turn around from serious talk to… downright _childish_ behavior. It was…

Alright, it was fucking weird.

Not that he was complaining. He felt like a fog had lifted off of him, and he drank the rest of his water and smiled around the edge of the glass.

“Alex, what do you like on pizza?”

He started. “Oh, umm…”

“Get me Hawaiian,” Martha said from the counter, pouring a cupful of sugar into a half-pitcher of water.

“Martha, you know I can’t stand pineapple.” George groaned from the doorway.

“Then it’s too bad that you married a woman with _taste_ , dear.”

“I like pineapple,” Alex added with a bit of a smirk. Just a bit of one, really. He absolutely wasn’t poking fun at _Senator George Washington_ except that he was and what was his life turning into?

Martha leaned across the counter as best she could for a high five, and Alex laughed and slapped her hand and George groaned again from the doorway, mumbling something about fine, but he’d get his own pizza. And if Alex saw the private, joyful look he and his wife traded that definitely was about him, well, he pretended that he didn’t notice.

And it struck Alex as they ate dinner around the kitchen island instead of the table, the pizza boxes just laid out in front of them and sipping Martha’s sweet tea, that just a few weeks ago when he came into the Washington home, he was struck by the life George and Martha had without him and he had acutely felt like an imposition on their perfect home.

And then he thought about the fight he’d overheard just a few days prior, the uncomfortable space between the Washingtons the days before it, and the way that afterward they had seemed so much better off, and he thought about what George had said upstairs, about releasing tension.

And it was like a combination of those things had happened somehow, like Alex’s fight had somehow suddenly fixed something in the air and he they could all breathe again. Like… not everything was good, not everything was easy,

But at least he wasn’t hiding all of it anymore.

And it felt good, he thought, as he climbed the stairs to his room, his stomach full and his heart light. It felt good, and he changed into his ratty pajamas and sat criss-cross on the chair at the shiny wooden desk.

And he pulled open the bottom drawer.

Ran his hands over the smooth leather cover of the fine notebook, opened the cover and smiled at the note before setting it aside.

And touched a pen to the first page.

 

****End of Part 1****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: For every two steps forward, there's one step back. Alex's new life gets into full swing, and between a new school, new friends, and the complex political obstacle course that is Jackson, D.C., Alex doesn't think anyone could call his life "boring."
> 
> Tell me what you think of how it's coming along! Anything you want to see in part two? I love feedback on the fic, so come over here and let me know how I'm doing :)  
> Until next time,  
> Your Desiree <3


	10. Alexander and George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of school and introductions to new characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waltzes in after almost a month. Yes hello IM SORRY.  
> Well friends it appears I have taken the holidays off of writing, but never fear, my identity crisis regarding this story is over and I have my plan in place for what comes from here on out.  
> Enjoy this chapter and thank you for your patience!

*~*~*~*~ **Part Two** ~*~*~*~*

 

Things felt different after the fight and the subsequent conversation with the Washingtons. The atmosphere in the house was lighter, more relaxed. Martha and Alex dove into looking at the different schools in the area the very next day, as even Alex was beginning to feel the pressure of the approaching school year weighing on him. And as much as he dreaded the inevitable difficulty of entering a new school, Alex knew there was no point fighting it anymore.

And then Mr. Franklin called.

It was two days after Alex’s interview and somehow, miraculously, the man hadn’t given up on him completely, and invited him to attend the International School that year. Whether it was because of the Washigntons’ influence or his own merit Alex couldn’t know, but feeling bad about making Martha work so hard to find him a new school and more secure in himself after his and the Washingtons’ talk, he agreed to go.

And thus began a whirlwind of activity over the remainder of the week. Mrs. Washington insisted they go clothes shopping and Alex, looking at his wardrobe, couldn’t really disagree with her (that and one look from Mr. Washington told him that he shouldn’t bother arguing; he’d lose). The school had no uniform, a fact that surprised and delighted Alex, and in the end he was satisfied with the things they bought, even if he did think that Mrs. Washington had gone a little overboard in quantity.

School supplies came more naturally to him, but discomfort abounded when Mrs. Washington insisted on getting him a phone. It was a _nice_ phone, as well, and Alex _had_ protested at that one, but she quickly shut him down, saying,

“I know you’re from New York, dear, but D.C. is a different beast, and if you’re going to be going to school in the city with me in Mount Vernon or god knows where else and George tied up at the Capitol, I’m getting you a phone and that’s that.”

Alex had argued that he didn’t need a smartphone, at least, but she was having none of it, and he was quickly discovering that Martha Washington was more of a force of nature than perhaps he’d originally thought.

And so on Monday, September 3rd, Alex woke up earlier than he ever had in the Washington home, showered and pulled back his hair and threw on a soft and deeply green t-shirt before going downstairs to already find George nursing a cup of coffee and Martha yawning over the stove.

They ate breakfast, and Mr. Washington gave his wife a quick kiss goodbye, and Martha embraced Alex quickly and asked him for what had to be the ninth time if he had everything he needed, and then he was sitting in the car with Mr. Washington and making the long drive down to D.C. while George listened to the morning news on NPR and sipped more coffee from a travel mug.

It was a long, crowded commute, and Alex must have dozed off to the sounds of the news, the movement of the car, the morning light filtering in through the windows, because before he knew it there was a hand gently shaking his shoulder and he startles in his seat, his heart beating rapidly as he got his bearings.

“Sorry to wake you like that, son,” and it was George beside him. They were driving to D.C. It was Alex’s first day of school. Right.

“I’m not your son,” Alex said weakly, no real heat behind it.

“My apologies, Alex,” George said, taking a sip of his coffee as they crossed the bridge into the city, and Alex looked up in something like awe at the back of the Lincoln Memorial. Somewhere across the mall was George’s office.

Alex wondered if he ever got tired of being a Senator.

“Alex?” George got his attention, “Remember that I won’t be picking you up right after school today, and you’ll be staying after with –”

“The Schuyler girls, right.” Alex finished. That week George and Martha had told him at length about Philip Schuyler’s daughters, and the Phillip and George had been friends for a long time, and they were sure the girls would love him and it would be so nice for him to have other kids in the same school and the same situation as him and all that bullshit that parents spout when trying to make kids like each other. And to be honest Alex wasn’t sure how to feel about the Schuyler sisters, as the Washingtons had called them, but he knew Phillip Schuyler’s politics, and the Washingtons seemed like they were trying, so he figured he’d give it a shot at least for their sake.

That in itself had been strange, as he could hardly remember the last time he’d ever done something simply because his foster parents wanted him to, without any threat or coercion attached. It was… new.

“Phillip says his daughters usually spend their afternoons at the library, or they occasionally come by his office and study there. Just… text me and let me know where you are? And if you decide to go anywhere and… all that.” He paused, somewhat awkwardly. Alex sat nervously in the passenger’s seat and thought about how this was new for him, but it was new for Senator Washington, too.

“I trust you, Alex,” the man added in the quiet car. “Don’t think that we don’t trust you. We just want you to be safe.”

“I understand,” Alex said, and Mr. Washington nodded.

“Alright,” he said, as they pulled up to the front of the school, the buildings of clean brick, windows wide and shining in the morning light. And Alex took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, slinging his backpack over his right shoulder, lunchbox in hand.

“Alex!” Mr. Washington called from the car behind him. He turned. George was smiling brightly, “Have a good day at school, son,” he said, soft, just between the two of them, before rolling up the window, and driving away.

Alex looked after him for a long moment. “I’m not you son,” he murmured, but all the same there was a warmth in his chest, and he turned and looked up at the elegant brick buildings and the students milling about around him and wondered exactly what he was supposed to do next.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

In George’s experience, there were two prevailing ideas regarding working as a legislator in Jackson, D.C. The first was that the city was a constant source of inspiration, in that _Mr. Smith Goes to Jackson_ way, and that walking down the mall filled a person with grand ambition and big ideas and patriotic idealism. That the city and the grandeur and the memory of those that had come before held one accountable. This was usually spouted by bright-eyed idealists whom George could never really dislike for their optimism.

The other opinion seemed to be that the politics of the city would slowly corrupt anyone who worked there, and that the symbolism of the place would mean nothing to those who were only there to gain personal power and wealth. From what George had seen, this was the opinion the prevailed in modern and cynical times. The somewhat dramatic nature of being a Senator had never been George’s favorite part of the job, but it was endurable at the best of times.

The truth was that he (like most of his colleagues) was somewhere in between the extremes. The shock and awe of having an office in the nation’s capital came and went at seemingly random times. For example, the Capitol building had never affected George that way. It seemed that the countless talks with Phillip and with political advisors and a year on the campaign trail had gotten him used to the image of himself on the Congress floor.

No, what sent a shock through him was the Russell Building. It was the Russell Building with marble staircases and the soaring rotunda and offices upon offices with Senators and their staff and it was walking into his own office there that made it seem real.

And some days it still caught him a bit, still made him pause for a moment to remember that this was _real_ , that there was so much work to be done and George was one of very few that the country was counting on to do it.

A quick security check at the door, metal detectors and ID, and he climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked down the hall to his office. The Russell building was always buzzing, George thought, with staff popping in and out of the various offices and running up and down the hall. Organized chaos was the name of the game in Washington D.C., and George was in the heart of it.

He stepped into his office.

“Good morning, Senator Washington,” his secretary stood up from behind her desk and followed him through the outer office and into his own.

“Morning, Cheryl,” he said, setting down his briefcase and picking up a stack of papers on the desk, flipping through them quickly as he pulled out his reading glasses. “What’s on today?”

“Senator Stabenow has asked to drop in today to speak with you about support for H.R. 5528.” The woman replied, taking her place standing on the other side of George’s desk. He looked up over his glasses.

“The FAFSA bill?”

“Yes sir.”

George shook his head, looking back down and continuing to unpack his briefcase. “It needs work.” He sighed. “When will she be in?”

“Nine-thirty, sir.”

“Fine. Next?”

“You have an Armed Services Committee meeting scheduled for 11:00.”

George nodded. The committee meeting was likely to last several hours; he’d have to get the majority of work done this morning if he wanted to get home on time –

“And Senator Schuyler asked to be notified when you got in this morning; he’d like to come speak with you.” _That_ one caught his attention. He never knew quite what to expect from Phillip; experience had taught him that his friend could turn a friendly conversation into a position in the United States Senate with little strain. But nonetheless, he nodded at Cheryl.

“You can tell Phillip I’m here.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Cheryl.” She nodded and left the room.

George sighed again, a heavy, morning thing, as he sat down at his desk and pulled out his reading glasses to look more carefully over the bill laid out in front of him, and was South Carolina really trying to put it past Congress to revoke _all_ Federal funding for planned parenthood? Again? Laurens’ name topped the bill and he found himself fervently wishing for just a moment that some of the members of the Senate would –

“Well, well, if it isn’t George Washington.”

Phillip Schuyler was standing in the door when George looked up – no, not standing – _leaning_ , leaning against the doorframe and positively wearing a _smirk_ and Phillip never _smirked_ talking about policy and caught up in work, he had almost forgotten, but he suddenly remembered _exactly_ why Phillip had wanted to come see him.

And really, it was too damn early for this nonsense.

“Phillip,” he said shortly before looking back down at his papers.

“George Washington,” the man said again, drawing his name out long, and by God he was _sauntering_ into the room and wearing the most self-satisfied smile George had seen in at least a week, and that meant something, working where he did.

“Did you need something, Phillip?” He said over his glasses.

“Oh, not really,” the man said, leaning against George’s desk, “just thought I’d come check on you.”

“In that case,” George said without looking up, “now you’ve checked, and I kindly suggest you leave as I have a meeting at 9:30 about H.R. 5528 to prepare for.” He was _sure_ he heard his secretary laughing in the outer office and that was really just unfair.

“That bill is six pages long, George, and you’ve already read it,” Phillip said good-naturedly. “Besides, a Southern gentleman” – he could _hear_ the capitalized letter – “such as yourself would never unceremoniously kick a friend and colleague out of his office without so much as hearing what he has to say.”

“Phillip, is this really necessary?” he said, exasperated.

“Well, George, you know what day it is.” The man goaded.

“I doubt it could have escaped me,” he sighed, and then under his breath, “especially with you breathing down my neck about it.”

“Did you cry?”

He levelled Phillip with his best over-the-glasses glare. “Why on Earth would I do something like that.”

“Come now, George, it’s the first day of school!”

“I did not cry, please leave me alone.”

“You’re not even a little nervous?” the man prodded, leaning against the desk and looking down at him from above, that same smugness on his face, he just knew it. “Worried?”

“No.” George didn’t look up.

“Not even concerned?”

“For God’s sake, Phillip, the boy’s been to school before!” He snapped in exasperation standing up to look one Phillip Schuyler square in the face.

The man just laughed uproariously, pushing himself away from the desk. “There it is!” he cried gleefully, “I knew you cared, Georgie!”

“You are a United States Senator.” He deadpanned, and sat heavily back in his chair. “I have to say, I did not anticipate quite this much ridicule when Martha and I decided to foster,” he began in what Martha called his “lecture voice.” “Just because you’ve been doing this longer –”

“You know I’m only joking, George.” Phillip said, softer, and pulled up a chair to the other side of his desk, his tone no longer teasing, instead filled with a sincere fondness. “But in all seriousness,” he said, “how are things going?”

George couldn’t help but smile and leaned back. “Much better. I’d say good, even. Alex has opened up a… surprising amount the last week or so.” His eyes drifted to a painting by the door, an antique that depicted the view from Mount Vernon’s piazza, generations before. He remembered the day he found it. He’d hung it in every office he’d had since. “There are still things Martha and I don’t know about him, about his past” he continued, “and he’s still a little uncertain around us, but we’ve been able to get him some new things, clothes and school supplies and a phone, without him protesting too much. And I think he’s really going to do well at this new school, he’s just brilliant –” he broke off upon looking over and seeing Phillip’s smile.

“You sound like a proud father,” the man commented quietly. George shook his head, not thoughtful.

“I’m not sure you can call me a father yet,” he said. “Alex is very resistant to any implication of Martha and I as his parents but… I am proud. I’m proud of him.” He laughed, a small, breathy thing, “it’s funny, I’m not even entirely sure why. I just… am.” He paused for a moment, and then, quiet, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It’s like that,” Phillip said good naturedly, the words of a more experienced man. “And you should be proud. Of him and yourselves. It sounds like you’re doing a good job.” George smiled at that. “I’m very happy for the both of you.”

“We’re happy.” George said in return. “I haven’t seen Martha so full of joy in a long time. Not that she was particularly unhappy before, even though we’ve been working through some issues,” he added, hurriedly, “it’s just that there’s something… different. She’s come alive.”

“The joy of motherhood,” Phillip chuckled, then serious, “I always thought she’d be wonderful in that role. I’m glad she’s finally gotten the chance.” George nodded, and Phillip did a funny little knock on the desk, like something had just occurred to him. “You know, he’s going to meet my girls today. I told them to look out for him.”

George just snorted a laugh, thinking of Alex facing the Schuyler girls.

“What’s the laugh for?” Phillip asked good-naturedly, “You think he can handle them?”

“Your girls?” George said incredulously, “He’ll be fine. In fact, he and Angelica will probably get on like a house on fire.”

“I hope you’re right. She needs someone who can match her now and then.”

George chuckled knowingly. “Oh they’ll be quite the match indeed.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alex stood there in front of the school for a moment, just taking it all in, and shifted his backpack awkwardly on his back and suddenly felt very, very small in his own skin.

And then –

“Alexander, right?”

He turned.

And was faced with three girls.

The first (and Alex could tell from her posture and attitude that she was the _first_ ) had on a coral-pink top that nicely complimented her dark skin and sparkly makeup. Her long, dark, coiled hair was half pulled back and she was chewing gum and eyeing him critically. She couldn’t have been much taller than him, but it felt like she _towered_.

The other two stood a little bit behind her, forming a triangle that looked like something out of a movie. To the right, a smaller girl with similar hair and skin, looking like a younger version of the assertive one, but with less makeup and dressed in sunny yellow with a half-pout on her face. And to the left…

By far the loveliest girl Ales had ever seen in real life.

Her flowy pastel blue-green blouse set off her pale skin and golden-brown eyes, and her straight, dark hair fell past her shoulders and she gave off an air of pure elegance. Not as loud an air as the other two, the perfect soft completion to the triangle in front of him.

He didn’t realize he was maybe staring just a little until she smiled, small but genuine, and –

“Are you Alexander? Senator Washington’s foster kid?” The tall one spoke again, snapping Alex’s attention back to her again and Alex scrambled to answer.

“Yes,” he said, thrusting his hand out, “Alexander Hamilton, Alex to most.” The girl eyed him up and down again, an assessment, and then shook his hand.

“Angelica Schuyler,” she said, “our father works with yours. He told us to keep an eye out for you.”

“The Washingtons told me about you,” he said, “and I know your father – I mean I’m familiar with his work, I…” he awkwardly trailed off a bit, finishing softer, “I’m from New York, so…”

Another assessment look. “Really,” Angelica said, and Alex couldn’t tell just what emotion was behind it.

The girl in yellow loudly cleared her throat and Angelica turned around, looking almost apologetic before stepping a little to the side. “Alex, these are my sisters, Margar –”

“Peggy,” the young one interrupted, shooting Angelica a glare and Alex was quickly learning that the girl had an attitude and a half. Not in a bad way, just… sassy.

Angelica rolled her eyes, earning her another glare, before she indicated the last girl, the one who caught Alex’s attention before. “And –”

“Elizabeth Schuyler,” the girl said, stepping forward, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” It didn’t escape Alex’s notice that Elizabeth looked different than her sisters, but he was a foster kid now. He knew not to say anything, instead staying silent for once and bowing his head slightly in acknowledgement. “New York to D.C. is quite a move to make. I hope you’re settling in okay?”

“If it takes a move like that for us to meet, it will have been worth it,” he said impulsively, resisting the urge to do something stupid, like kiss her hand or something. He saw Angelica raise an eyebrow and Peggy look up from her phone abruptly. But who cared, he thought, because there was something about Elizabeth Schuyler, and when she blushed a little at his words, Alex thought it was pretty.

“We’ll have class soon,” she said, changing the subject, “What’s your schedule like? I’m in 9th year too, I can help you find where you’re going.” Alex swung his bag around in his shoulder and dug around a bit for the slip of paper with his schedule printed on it. He handed it to Elizabeth when he pulled it out.

She smiled brightly as she looked over the page. “We have history together, first thing,” then she paused, almost shy for the first time since they started speaking. “and homeroom and literature, it looks like. I can… show you to first period. If you want, that is,” she added as an afterthought, blushing a little again.

And Alex looked at her and felt himself _smile_. He _liked_ Elizabeth Schuyler. “After you,” he said, and the two of them walked toward the front doors together, Alex only peripherally aware of the two other sisters trailing behind.

Class was engaging enough, and to Alex’s surprise, the history course didn’t include as much Europe-worship as he expected. Elizabeth was wonderful too, and popular from what Alex could see. He watched as she greeted friends before class, hugging them, asking how their summers had been, the way she nodded and listened sweetly as her classmates lit up and told her their favorite vacation stories, how she laughed off the show-boating of some of the more obnoxious students who were just trying to one-up everyone else, the way she just handled herself with this… elegance.

He watched and he sat in a desk next to the one she had claimed and watched as she greeted people and for a moment he felt left out but then Eliza (or Eliza, as he was quickly realizing people called her) pulled him up and began introducing him. And honestly, he was expecting his arrival at the Jackson International School to be… well, more of a _thing_. He’d been in eleven foster homes and had done the new student thing eleven times. He’d learned that there were few things teenagers liked more than gossip and a new student was always a good way to spin up some rumors.

Maybe it was coming in at the beginning of the year, but his presence at school was something of a non-event. Elizabeth introduced him to a few people before class, and they were cordial, even friendly. A few of them asked where he was from, why he’d moved to D.C., and Alex answered vaguely before Eliza swooped in to change the subject. She was tactful that way, and the other students didn’t pry too much, and then it seemed he was just… a part of the school. Like his presence was hardly something out of the ordinary. It was interesting. It was kind of nice. He hadn’t naturally transitioned into a place like that in… well, maybe never.

Class started, and they all sat down, pulled out notebooks and pens as a teacher stood up before the class and began to speak, handing out syllabi and schedules for the year, the class processing her words with more attention than Alex was used to at previous schools.

But as class started, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of Elizabeth Schuyler. Between Alex and the teacher, it was like his eyes were drawn to her constantly. There was one word he kept coming back to, looking at her. Elegant. The grace in her posture at all times, beautiful, the curve of her neck and shoulder as she bent over her notebook during the lecture, her perfect, dutiful handwriting in blue pen.

He might have been a little distracted in history, sure, but it was first day at a new school, after all, he was only meeting new people. He was only adjusting to his surroundings. He was only ogling Elizabeth Schuyler a little bit.

A little over halfway through class, he realized he’d hardly taken any notes, lost in thought, and he made up for it the rest of the time by desperately scribbling down every detail of the lecture until his hand cramped and felt sore.

And then… life went on, it seemed, and even though he was new, it all felt strangely comfortable, and before he knew it he had met up with the Schuyler sisters again and sat down to lunch.  When Alex opened his lunchbox, he saw a little note with Martha’s signature on it and he felt himself blush even as he quickly and discreetly slipped the note into his pocket. Eliza asked him how the rest of his morning had gone and Angelica looked on with critical eyes and Peggy was bent over a sketchbook.

And Alex recounted his other classes as Eliza listened attentively, nodding along and chiming in with comments about this teacher or that, which classes she was looking forward to and which she was dreading. And that was another great thing about her, Alex thought. No one had listened to what he had to say in such a long time and between Elizabeth Schuyler and the Washingtons he had probably spoken more in the last week then he had in months before that. It was refreshing. It was _right_.

The whole time Angelica looked at him with that same unreadable expression, and Peggy didn’t look at all.

Until Angelica spoke up while Alex took a break, noticing that nearly fifteen minutes had passed and he had yet to eat anything.

“You know, Alex,” she said, “I was surprised that you knew our father. Not very many people our age seem to be that interested in politics.” There was a clear challenge in the words, the same challenge that had been in her eyes since the moment they met, like she was sizing Alex up.

It was bait, and Alex bit.

“I’m very interested in politics, actually,” he said, turning on his stool to meet Angelica’s eyes more directly, “and I lived in New York almost my whole life before I came here.”

“Almost?” Angelica pried, and Alex internally winced, but he pointedly ignored it and barreled on.

“I read that he recently sponsored a bill that would make it easier for non-profit organizations that focus on working with children to perform background checks on volunteers. It had some godawful long-winded title –”

“S. 1362. The Child Protection Improvements and Electronic Life and Safety Security Systems Act of 2012,” Angelica cut in.

“ _Yes_ , that one. Non-profits that work with children should _absolutely_ have easier access to FBI criminal records –”

“You really think it’s necessary for summer camps to have access to the FBI?”

“Look, I’ve been in the foster system for two years and counting, I’ve seen a fair share of non-profit kid’s programs, and let me tell you I would have liked to see some more background checks on some of the people I’ve encountered, and there are kids who have been in it _so much_ _longer_ –”

And off they went, the two of them like that, for the rest of lunch, with Elizabeth looking on and chiming in occasionally with an insightful comment of her own. But Alex’s focus now was entirely on the oldest Schuyler. Angelica, he was learning, had a quick wit and seemingly effortless intelligence that threw even him for a loop. Nothing got past her, she had a point to counter every one of his, and the two went back and forth for the rest of the lunch period playing devil’s advocate to each other’s arguments. They had to. Alex could tell their beliefs lined up almost exactly, every opinion they had in near total agreement.

Before he knew it, the bell was ringing, and they all had to head off to their next class, Alex falling in step with Angelica and chattering on as they left the lunchroom, saying a quick goodbye to Eliza and Peggy, meaning to walk off to his own class when the oldest Schuyler sister caught him by the arm.

Alex could swear that every time she looked at him she was looking straight into his soul. Piercing. “I know what you’re doing, by the way,” she said seriously.

Alex prided himself on his mind, but in this moment… “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My sister, Alex. Eliza.” She kept a firm hold in his arm, her nails pressing just a little uncomfortably into his upper arm, her eyes keeping him where he was. And there was something… something in them. Something Alex couldn’t read, but then, he hadn’t been able to all day. Her voice was strained as she continued. “The way you look at her is painfully obvious.”

He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

“Know that while I don’t mind you being interested in my sister, I will tell you this.” She lowered her voice, narrowed her eyes. “You do one thing to make my sister regret any increment of time spent with you and you will answer to _me_. I love Eliza more than anything in my _life_. You hurt her, I end you. Got it?”

Alex swallowed nervously. “Got it,” he choked out, fully feeling like he was withering under the girl’s gaze. She looked him over for one more nerve-wracking moment before abruptly dropping her hand and stepping back.

“Good,” she said brightly, turning on a charming smile before turning and half-shouting over her shoulder, “see you later, Alex!”

And Alex just stood there in the rapidly-emptying hallway and wondered just what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

*****  
Angelica’s words stayed with him through the rest of the school day, even as Alex did his best to focus on his classes and not the Schuyler sisters, as difficult as it turned out to be. It was just that… he’d never met anyone like them before. Never met anyone with Eliza’s beauty or Angelica’s wit. Never met people his age who so quickly adopted him into their group. They were different and exciting and strange and he liked it.

He liked it when he met them after school and they sat around a table in the library and studied.

He liked, when at 4:00. Angelica declared that they were going to go for “first day of school ice cream” and insisted Alex come along. After all, she said, their father had asked them to keep an eye on Alex for the first day. Eliza added that as they were all getting picked up by their fathers at the same time, it only made sense.

He like walking down the streets of D.C. in the hot afternoon Virginia sun, and the smell of the ice cream shop, and he liked sitting next to Eliza on a bench in the constitution gardens, eating ice cream and feeling it drip onto his fingers when he got caught up in talking, the rays of the sun making it a little too hot and making Alex feel _present_ and _real_.

There had been a short moment of Alex not having any money to pay for the ice cream, telling the sisters he wasn’t getting any before Angelica cut him off, saying, “I’ll cover you today. Welcome to D.C.” and then, with a wink, “but you’ll owe us later, Hamilton.”

Even Peggy had smiled, the prospect of the treat cheering her considerably, and sitting in the constitution gardens she looked happier than Alex had seen her all day.

Alex was happy too, shooting off texts every once in a while to Senator Washington like the man had asked, and in his phone they looked like a short chronicle of their little after-school adventure.

His phone dinged. Alex looked down.

 **** George:** If I had known there would be ice cream, I would have left work early. Have fun, see you in an hour :)  ******

Alex gave a small laugh, causing Eliza to look sleepily over from where she was currently laying in the grass. He tasted the sweetness on his tongue and felt the warmth of the sun on his skin, he listened to the sounds of the buzzing city around him and looked up to see rustling leaves and shining water. Eliza lay in the grass below him, letting the sun shine down with her hair fanned out behind her, and to his left Angelica and Peggy were talking lazily and comparing something on their phones. And for the first time in a long time, Alex felt happy to be right where he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was okay???? I know not much happened but don't you worry this is just the beginning. You ain't seen nothin' yet.  
> Leave a kudos or a comment if you liked it, or if there's something you'd like to see from this verse (I am not opposed to sprinkling some one shots into the series).  
> Thank you again, ever so much, for your patience with me, and I hope you are all having a happy new year!  
> As Always,  
> Your Desiree <3


	11. Alexander & Martha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander likes school and Eliza. Martha has a meeting with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS GUYS GUYS I JUST REALIZED ITS 6 MONTHS SINCE I STARTED THIS FIC!!!!  
> I don't even know, fam, this is literally all Martha Washington having feelings again. But, in my defense, we haven't hung out with her in a couple chapters so hey it's her turn!  
> Please enjoy; chapter 12 is going to be more fun ;)

The first two weeks at the Jackson International School had passed largely without incident for Alex. He felt as though he was settling in well, the Schuyler sisters were more wonderful each day he knew them, classes were more engaging and more challenging than any he’d had in years. He came back to the Washington home in the evening and was eager to discuss the topics he was learning with Mr. and Mrs. Washington over the dinner table, to hear their thoughts and ideas and stories.

Of course, there were some low points. There were people at Jackson International that were everything Alex had feared from a private school. Rich, from powerful families, kids who’d likely never experienced a day of hardship in their lives and whose attitude reflected that. For the most part, he kept away from them, choosing instead to associate with the Schuylers and a very slowly growing pool of other students, but all the same, the unsavory characters were there.

And they seemed to have taken an interest in Alex around week three.

It wasn’t much at first, just snickers in the hallway as he walked by, a snide comment here and there under the breath, in fact far less sinister than he’d seen at previous schools, or god forbid the group home. He tried not to let it bother him, but all the same, there was derision around him, that implication that he didn’t belong, that he was only there because of… _something_. The something changed, and Alex never heard them say exactly what it was, but it was always there.

They were quiet about it, but Alex was sure the something was the Washingtons.

Which, to be completely honest, made him more than a little perturbed.

Because he was coming to _like_ the Washingtons. The weeks rolled by after school started and he and the Washingtons talked more. George would pick him up in the afternoons and together they’d glide over the roads back to Mount Vernon. Some days George was almost triumphant-looking, other days his shoulders would be slumped in something like disappointment, like exhaustion. Alex came to find himself being disappointed too when George came from work looking discouraged. But even so, the man always made an effort to ask Alex about his day, about his classes, and his friends. And Alex never passed up the opportunity to talk, filling the car with his voice and covering up the soft, background tones of whatever radio station as they made their way back to the house on the green hill.

They usually stayed away from extensive talk of George’s job on the way home, so that he could tell Alex and Mrs. Washington at the same time over dinner. It saved Mr. Washington a repetition of a story; it gave Alex a chance to observe and reflect. At first, he stayed far away from commenting on the politics, but in the second week of this he couldn’t hold back and would chime in occasionally, and by the third week he was brimming with questions that he’d fire off at the table and pretend not to see Martha Washington looking on with… something like pride.

Because that look, all of that, was just a little too much to delve into.

But all the same, Alex thought things were going well as September faded into October and summer faded fully into Autumn in D.C., and the breeze and waning orange sunlight of fall afternoons loosened Alex’s shoulders and got caught in Eliza Schuyler’s dark hair.

  


*~*~*~*~*

  


Alex’s first two weeks at the Jackson International School seemed to be going well by all indication, and Martha felt a deep and joyful satisfaction seeing him come through the door in the evenings as she fixed (or on busier days, ordered) dinner, chatting away with her husband about his thing or that.

She truly thought he was beginning to come out of his shell, and it was this that she told her friend Mary Philpse as they sat down to coffee on a brisk Thursday morning.

Mary was an old friend of Martha’s; she’d known her before Martha was married the first time, and ever since their long-ago school days Mary had been flitting in and out of Martha’s life as her own allowed. She had done some incredible things, some Martha not even sure she believed, but when Mary called her the and asked if she could make it down to D.C. for catch-up coffee and perhaps lunch, Martha couldn’t say no.

And so Martha Washington walked into a small café at 10:00 on a mid-September Thursday to see her old friend waving from a corner table by the window. They talked in long, lazy loops, Mary filling in Martha on the past few years in her life (as though Martha hadn’t been able to keep up with every single one of her adventures since the advent of Facebook), and Martha, more quietly, doing the same.

It wasn’t long before they settled onto the topic of Alexander.

“I still can’t believe it,” Mary’s laugh was always a touch too loud, and always drew the gaze of other patrons, “you’re a mother!”

Martha shook her head. “Hardly,” she said with a slightly strained smile.

“No help from George in that department, either, I’d suspect?” The other woman added conspiratorially with another laugh. “Men. Always off in their own little world and leaving us to do all the work.”

“Actually,” Martha said, doing her very best to sound nonchalant. “He’s been very engaged with Alexander. Very attentive.”

“Of course, of course,” the woman said, her red lipstick leaving another stain in the coffee cup as she took another sip, “he always was a good man. Not bad looking either, I have to say.”

“So you have said,” Martha replied, letting her gaze drift out the window and away from her friend, and then back, “if I recall correctly, _you_ wanted to be Mrs. Washington for a while there, didn’t you?” It was a bit of a shallow dig, a nudge, and Martha wasn’t sure what had gotten into her. Perhaps she hadn’t slept as well as she’d thought the night before.

“Oh, he was never for me,” Mary chattered, “too tied down to this place,” and this was said with a wild gesture not unlike swatting at a bee, “I wasn’t meant to be stuck in sleepy old Virginia, I had to _get out_.”

“Of course,” Martha murmured distractedly, and thinking of the view of the river from Mount Vernon and her favorite window seat in the library.

“Yes it always _was_ so dreadfully boring back home, wasn’t it? Now Italy, that was a place I could stay. They have _men_ over there like you wouldn’t believe, Martha. Of course, they’re all  catholic, but I’m sure I could fix _that_ with enough time.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Martha agreed quietly. She hadn’t remembered Mary being quite so… she wasn’t sure what it was.

“I don’t reckon you’re bored though, are you Martha?” Another cackle. “Why Martha Dandridge a _mother!_ You know after all that business with your first husband I never thought I’d see the day! I just can’t believe it!”

Martha looked up rather sharply at that, irked. “Is it so very difficult to believe?”

“Well, Martha, darling, you know what I meant. I just never pegged you as motherly type. You were always so _independent_ , you know?”

“You might be surprised,” Martha said back, her voice slow and chilly, “the things people do that you didn’t expect from them.” Stirring her coffee again. It had long since gone cold, but Martha couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“Well it’s just that I’ve always had such _instincts_ you know?” Mary said again, her voice abrasive. “I usually can look at a person and see their story right away.”

“Must be fascinating.” Once again, directed more at her coffee cup than at Mary herself.

“But you keep an eye on this boy, dear. Make sure you know what he’s up to.”

 _That_ caught Martha’s attention. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, well you know… children with his… background,” Mary said, not looking at Martha, instead pouring another sugar into her coffee like she was talking about the state of the weather rather than… than _what_ , “and you did say he,” she lowered her voice, “isn’t from here,” she finished significantly, looking at her with sincere and hinting eyes. And then she leaned back into her chair again and her voice was back to its boisterous nonchalance. “You know how young people can be.”

“If you are implying,” Martha responded quietly, cold fury building up in her chest and dripping from her voice, “that the country Alexander was born in has anything to do with the way he –”

“Oh, Martha,” Mary scoffed carelessly, her brow furrowing, “I know you have to say all that nonsense for the press, what with George’s frankly ridiculous occupation, but you really don’t have to be so ‘politically correct’ among old friends. And besides,” she said, picking up her mug, “it isn’t _just_ his birthplace. Having parents like _that_ is likely to set a bad example for these impressionable young people. These children flooding into the system from careless parents, they’re not like their schoolmates and such. All I’m saying is you should be careful with him, make sure he’s not… taking _advantage_ –”

“That’s quite enough!” Martha snapped, setting her cup down sharply on the wooden table, the sound echoing through the shop, once again drawing the eyes of the other patrons, and Martha drew herself up as tall as her 5’2” frame would allow, and looked at the displeased set of her friend’s red mouth.

“I,” she began, as icily as she’d spoken in a long time, “can assure you that where Alexander was born has no bearing on his character. And,” she continued, furious, “I do not say these things because I am attempting to save political face or bolster my husband’s career. I have seen nothing in Alexander that would _ever_ lead me to believe that his _background_ , as you call it, has led him to be sat all untrustworthy. He is a brilliant, kind, wonderful young man, and he is a part of my family now. That is all there is to it, and I will not allow you to speak about my family in such a carelessly offensive way, Mary, no matter how long I’ve known you.”

The other woman looked rather like a turtle attempting to go into its shell, shrunken in her chair and with a look on her face that could set wood on fire. Martha only pressed forward, uncaring of the eyes on her.

“And as for _taking advantage,_ ” she said, “I hope Alexander takes advantage of every opportunity we can give him. He’s been dealt a lot in life he didn’t deserve and as for George and I,” she leaned in to look Mary straight in her eyes, “we are going to love him and respect him, and perhaps the next time you see me, Mary, if ever,” she drew back, “you won’t be so surprised to see me as mother, after all.” She pulled her coat off the back of her chair, threw a few bills from her wallet on the table.

“Good day, Ms. Philpse,” she said, and for once her life, Mary seemed to have nothing to say. “I hope you find some way to make it back to Italy.” And Martha walked out the door and let it swing fiercely shut behind her.

  


*~*~*~*~*

  


“What’s your favorite season, Alex?” Eliza asked as Alex and the sisters sat, once again, in the Constitution gardens, their favorite spot for the nice afternoons after school. Eliza was once again lying on her back, looking up at the sky, the afternoon light creating a spectrum of shining tones in her hair.

Alex looked up from his notebook, in which he’d been scribbling for… actually, he couldn’t remember how. “Huh?” he said, sounding, for a moment, quite like a fool.

“Your favorite season,” Eliza said again, letting out a contented sigh, “I can’t decide whether or not I like spring or fall better. But I think I like them both because they’re going between two things.” She looked back at Alex, her dark eyes sparkling in the light. “What’s yours?”

Alex laid down gently in the grass next to her, their hands brushing ever so slightly as he shifted to look up at the sky, too. He thought for a while.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I haven’t really thought about it in a while.” Another rush of words crowded into his mind, and he got up abruptly, walking over to his bench and reaching for his notebook, the leather cover slightly more worn than when the Washingtons first gave it to him, and over half its pages well filled.

“Alex, where are you going?” Eliza said sleepily from the grass. It wasn’t uncommon for her, after a long day, to nap, right there in the grass of the Constitution Gardens.

“I just need to write something down,” Alex responded, admittedly distracted, as eh touched his pen again to the page.

*****

Martha had another long meeting that day, after the disastrous tea with Mary, with one of the pastors from St. John’s Episcopal about efforts to start a new shelter for homeless youth in D.C., how to allocate the ever insufficient funds. There was never enough money, never enough to do everything they wished, and thinking of Alex at school, Alex in her house, Alex on the streets of New York and in a group home and thinking of Alex at the shelter had the system not picked him up… it all his much closer to home than usual, the decisions she had to make looming ever larger.

By the time she was making the quiet, smooth drive home to Mount Vernon, Martha was thoroughly exhausted, exhausted to the bone and wishing she could just go back to Mount Vernon and fall onto the couch and forget everything. And yet…

Mary’s words kept going on loop in her head, over and over.

The things she’d said about Alex, yes, and about his parents, such horrible things… but she pushed those from her mind. No, her thoughts were occupied by words like _sleepy old Virginia_ , and _it always was so dreadfully boring back home_ , words like _you were always so independent_ , like _I had to get out_. They left a prickling feeling on her skin, like bugs crawling over her, and it was uncomfortable and awful.

And then Mary’s insinuation that Martha was saving face for George’s position, that she was only treating Alex so well for _good press_ which was what Martha had been afraid of from the beginning.

But it was only coming from a friend (perhaps former friend now, she corrected) whom Martha had told about their new foster child, she assured herself, and the press hadn’t really caught on to anything yet, the private lives of Senators hardly filling a gossip column on a good day.

But there was something in the back of her mind saying that perhaps Mary was just the beginning. Perhaps Alex really wouldn’t be able to stay with them without facing terrible things said about him by… who? By people George and Martha knew, and the press, and the public, and in an age where it seemed _immigrant_ was becoming a bad word in Jackson, perhaps Alex was only being set up to be torn down. Perhaps it was only a matter of time.

It was on her mind as she pulled into the long Mount Vernon drive, as she parked in the small detached garage, shut off the car, and let her head drop into her hands, defeated, her breath shaking.

Every time she felt as though perhaps she would be alright, she and George, and Alexander, and that they could just be a family, every time something came up and ruined the vision for her, sent her back into a spiral of sadness and self-doubt.

She wanted to do well for Alexander, she wanted to be good for her husband, and Martha had long thought that wishing was foolish and useless, but for a moment she fervently wished that everything could just be simple.

She heaved a sigh and heaved herself from the car, walking, as she always did, the extra distance to go in the front door rather than the kitchen. She slumped against the door once she got inside, vividly reminded of that day weeks ago when she came home to Alexander existing solely and silently upstairs and George in his office. And she thought how things had changed and smiled, small and private, her first genuine smile of the day, and walked into the living room, collapsing on the couch.

  


*~*~*~*~*

  


“How was school, Alex?”

Alex slid into George’s car, waving goodbye to the Schuyler sisters and turning his head to take in the man in question. George was not elated today, but he wasn’t defeated either. Alex was surprised by how happy he was to see him.

“It was alright,” he said quietly, thinking of the kids who had laughed and scoffed when he passed them in the hallway between classes, who pointedly looked at him and whispered at each other in the cafeteria, and who rolled their eyes when he spoke in class. “How was yours?” he asked, before George could pry any further.

George sighed a little, “same old, same old, I guess,” he said, “not much going on other than a lot of bickering and fussing about the federal budget. That time of year.”

“…doesn’t the government’s fiscal year begin on October first?”

“Yep,” George said, popping his lips at the end of it and looking thoroughly spent.

“You’re late.”

“Alex, we’re always late,” George chuckled dryly, no humor in it. “It’s been years since anyone’s passed a budget on time.”

“Well what do you do if the government doesn’t have a budget at the start of the fiscal year? Doesn’t everything shut down?”

“That’s what would theoretically happen.”

“Well I haven’t heard anything about a government shutdown on the news, and you said ‘theoretically,’ so what are you doing instead?”

“Well,” George started, “we usually can see this mess coming, so we pas what we call ‘continuing resolutions…’”

And on it went, all the way back to the Washington house, the two of them still going back and forth, as usual, when they came in the kitchen.

The house was quiet, the kitchen lights off, and Martha, who for the past few weeks had always been there to greet George and Alex when they came in and cooking dinner, was nowhere to be seen.

George frowned, flicking the lights on. “I don’t remember her being out tonight,” he muttered, putting down his briefcase on the counter before walking over to the living room doorway. Alex swung his backpack down off of his shoulder and followed him.

And saw Mrs. Washington lying on the couch, asleep.

And looked up at George, who’s brow furrowed before he looked down at Alex. “Must’ve been a long day,” he whispered, then walked quietly over to a closet in the front hall. He pulled down a blanket form a high shelf, walked back to the couch and draped it carefully over Martha, still asleep. He looked back at Alex again, still standing in the doorway. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen, “I may not be my wife, but I can still make a mean chili. Martha needs a break.”

And for the next hour, it was Alex and Mr. Washington in the kitchen, George indeed finding the ingredients for the chili, as well as a box of cornbread mix in the pantry, which he let Alex handle putting together. It was quiet, and it was nice, and Alex wondered at the back of his mind what kind of day Mrs. Washington could have had that tired her out so much. It reminded him of his mother, the way she’d fall heavily onto the couch after a long day at work, how she’d open her eyes sleepily at Alex, _buenas noches, mijo_ , and how she’d get up, just as heavily, and move over to their tiny barely-a-kitchen, and begin to cook.

Alex sat heavily at the kitchen island and thought about that, and watched as Mr. Washington shook various spices into the large pot bubbling on the stove. And he thought about Mrs. Washington asleep in the living room and he worried. Mr. Washington turned the burner down low, and asked if Alex if he could get some bowls down from the cabinets and walked into the living room again. He could hear Mr. Washington speaking quietly from the other room, and he did his best not to eavesdrop.

Because this felt private, the whole way Mr. Washington had been acting since they first walked into the house that afternoon. It felt like it was just for him and his wife, that same feeling he’d had when he first came to the Washington home.

The Washingtons came back into the kitchen, Martha first, smoothing her hair down and George trailing behind her. And Alex, anxiety bubbling high in him, blurted “are you okay?” before he could stop himself.

And Martha’s eyes fell on him and something in her face went soft with something Alex wasn’t sure he could name, and the woman walked over to him and hugged him.

And she held him tight for long moments and said quietly, “yes, Alex, I’m fine. Thank you for asking me.” And Alex knew something was still wrong, could see Mr. Washington over her shoulder, taking stock, assessing, figuring out what to do. George met Alex’s eyes and nodded reassuringly, as if to say “it’s alright,” and Martha was holding him tightly and for the moment Alex calmed.

Dinner was a little quiet, Mrs. Washington still seeming less present than usual, and more contemplative, but George talked about work and Alex about school and the chili was good and hot and the cornbread hearty, and when Martha opened up a little, and when Alex went upstairs to do his homework later he thought to himself that things would be just fine.

  


*~*~*~*~*

  


George didn’t ask all through dinner, and he didn’t say a thing as they were cleaning up the dished and putting the leftovers in the fridge and scrubbing the tall pot. He didn’t ask as they sat on the couch and flipped through mundane television programs, didn’t say anything as Martha flipped on HGTV, and didn’t go to his office to do work. He just sat with her on the couch, an arm around her shoulders, and let her lean against his solid form for a long, long time, until they heard the slight creaking of the floor that indicated Alexander moving around his room, going to bed upstairs.

All the time, Martha was replaying that awful conversation in her head, and thinking about everything Mary had said, about Alex and about his parents and how it would break the boy’s heart if he knew, and how he had asked, soft and scared, if she was okay.

And she thought about Mary saying she had to get out and talking about marriage tying her down to _sleepy old Virginia_ , and she thought about pictures from Italy and Spain and _you were always so independent_ , and she felt curious and hot and ashamed, sitting next to her husband on the couch, and thinking such things.

And George didn’t ask, just sat there, moving his hand to brush absently through her hair, and breathing in time with her, until she couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Why haven’t you asked me about it yet?” she said, quietly to the room, and heard more than saw the TV shut off, as George shifted until she was sitting on her own and he was facing her.

“Because,” he said simply, “I was waiting for you.” Martha took a deep breath, felt George’s hand carefully take hold of hers. “Do you want to tell me what happened today?” She nodded. He waited.

And she told him everything that Mary had said in a great rush, maybe half of it not making sense, but George listened with an understanding face and quiet demeanor.

“I don’t even know why I got so upset,” she said quietly, watery.

“well you’ve known her a long time,” George said in return, “It was probably hard to hear those things coming from someone you thought of as a good friend.”

Martha nodded. “I worry about the things she said about Alex, the way she implied that he was something almost… criminal. It was… all I could think of after it was over was that… what if the press says the same thing?” She looked at George, and she knew they both had the same wide, worried expression. “George, what if it’s wrong for him to be here? What is it’s… what if staying with us just causes more problems for him? I don’t want our situation to put more stress on him.”

“My situation, you mean,” George said, matter-of-fact.

“Don’t _say_ that George, we’re in this together –”

“Yes,” George interrupted softly, squeezing her hand, “and it’s because my job puts pressure on the both of you, and for that I am so sorry,” he kissed her hand, “and so grateful that I have a wife who not only puts up with it all, but who asks to share the burden with me.” He pulled her back to the position they’d been in before, with his arm around her shoulders. “The press has yet to say anything about Alexander staying with us, and if they do, we’ll handle that when we get there. And I will not hesitate to publicly defend our decision to foster him. And we’ll decide what level of involvement in that will be best for both you and Alex. Does that sound good?”

Martha nodded, her breath and posture coming more easily. “Yes,” she said, “Yes, I think that will be alright.”

George kissed her head. “Good. Let’s go to bed.”

So they went upstairs and got ready for bed, changing into pajamas and brushing teeth but Martha’s mind was still on loop with the things that Mary had said. And she wanted to tell George about them, wanted to sit down and talk to him and let him reason her into comfort the way he always did. But at the same time, she wasn’t sure she could say them. Not to him.

But he was all they had.

And he was sitting in bed, reading a book from his bedside table when she walked out of the bathroom, and she didn’t think and said, “George.”

He looked up, and he looked so beautiful and worried and his dark eyes held hers the way they had the very first night they met and she felt horrified and ashamed of the things she was going to say, and she dropped her eyes and head to look down at the soft carpet under her feet.

George stood up, alarmed. “Martha,” is voice was grave and frightened, “what is it?”

“You aren’t going to like it.”

“Please tell me?”

“I –” she started, and stopped. Swallowed nervously, her heart there in her throat, “today,” she choked out, “Mary said, in addition to the things about Alexander, she talked about” her voice suddenly got very quiet, barely able to get the words out, “she was talking about how she never got married because she didn’t want to be tied down, and how,” she couldn’t look at him, and she could hardly speak, “how she was surprised to hear that we had Alexander, that I’m” she could just barely get the word out, and it sounded strangled, “a mother,” she said. “Se said she thought I was too… independent for all of that.”

And she didn’t look at George, thought about how there could still be a distance between them after all these years of being together.

George wasn’t having it. He walked over slowly; she could barely hear his steps on the plush carpet. And then a hand gently raised her head to look at him. And he looked as though he was very carefully maintaining a neutral expression. “We should sit down,” he said softly, “and then we can talk about this.”

Martha nodded. And they moved to the bed and sat down. They didn’t get under the covers, but George leaned back against the headboard, the pillows behind his back and Martha sat cross-legged, feeling young and vulnerable, near the end of the bed, facing him.

“I’ll admit, I’m not really sure where to start with this,” George said. He didn’t sound angry. A little concerned, maybe, worried. He was trying to keep his tone light for Martha’s sake. She could always tell. She ran a hand through her hair.

“I don’t know what got into me, really,” she said sincerely, “Mary was just saying these things and they were so… it just got me thinking about… how I got here, I guess.”

“She said you _were_ independent,” George said, a revelation playing across his face. Martha looked at him helplessly, unable to say what she was feeling, not even sure what she was feeling at all.

“You’re wondering where you would be if we hadn’t gotten married,” he said, sounding not at all as upset as she thought he would. And Martha replied, quiet.

“I suppose I am.”

George nodded. “Well…” he said, quietly, “that’s alright, isn’t it? Everyone wonders where they’d be if their life had gone differently.” He pauses for a moment, solemn, considering, “What matters,” he says slowly, “at least what I think matters,” he looked her in the eyes, “is whether or not you regret where you are now.”

Did she? Martha thought over that one sentiment, let it turn over and over in her head as George sat and waited without saying anything. Did she regret where she was? Did she regret becoming a wife and now a… she hardly dared to say… a mother?

She sat for long moment, hugging her knees at the end of the bed, thinking it over and over, and every time she pulled out an answer, the answer was overwhelmingly _no_. How could she regret the night when George proposed? How could she regret the way they’d remade this house together into their home? How could she regret the years with this man trailing out behind her, learning all of his passions and vulnerabilities. And now, with Alexander… she hadn’t felt like this, she hadn’t been as happy as this in years, and how could she regret him, how could she regret either of them.

And Daniel? The long years with her first husband were dark gray in her memory, as though in the presence of a permanent raincloud. And she regretted some things, leaving school, and her rash decision making, and the time she had spent in her house. Daniel was a chapter of her life that, if she had a genie and a magic lamp, she might wish away, and replace it with a world where she could stand on her own.

“I don’t regret you, George,” she said, almost having forgotten that he was still waiting for an answer, “I never could. I just…” she paused, “I think about how young I was the first time, and everything I left behind, and everything I abandoned,” she didn’t have to specify. He knew what she meant. “And I wonder, now,” she said slowly, “if I lost the chance to be… independent anymore. If I’ve forgotten how. If I’m nothing more than just… George Washington’s wife.” It sounded horrible, coming out of her and being thrown out into the air between them, and she looked at George again, terrified of what she’d implied.

But he only nodded, and then looked at her, and his eyes were sad. “I’m afraid,” he began, “you’ve been dealt a worse hand than I have in that regard. Because it’s easy for me to maintain an identity of my own, in my job, and,” he sighed heavily, running a hand over his head, “and because I’m a man, and you’re a woman, and you’re right in saying that a good number of people probably still see you as my wife first and everything else second. And I’m sorry that you have to go through that Martha, truly I am.” He looked away for a moment, seeming to collect himself, before continuing, soft, “I would hope,” he said, “that you do not too greatly dislike being George’s Washington’s wife.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly, “I really don’t George, I told you already that I can’t regret you, and I never would, and I – I love it here,” she grabbed his hand, “I love it here with you and with Alexander and I really don’t mind being your wife, I love being a part of… this,” she said, gesturing about her, “I’m so happy now, George, with everything we are.” And she was, and she could feel herself calming down mildly as she said it, and realized she believed it.

“I just wonder, I guess,” she said, “if I’ve lost the ability to be my own person. To have my own ideas.”

George nodded. “That’s understandable,” he said softly, “what do you want to do about that?”

Martha shrugged. It seemed a small problem now, less frightening than it had been even ten minutes ago. Now something she could put on a backburner and let simmer until she came up with an actual conclusion. “I don’t know,” she said to George, “but thank you for talking about it with me. I feel better now.”

“Thank you, Martha,” he said, pulling her close for what felt like the hundredth time that evening kissing her lightly, “for sharing it with me.” She nodded. “Now let’s go to sleep. I think we both need it.”

They slipped under the covers, and George’s arm snaked around Martha’s waist comfortably.

“How’s Alex?” she said quietly into the dark, and George hummed behind her.

“He’s good. He likes school, and,” he chuckled a little, “I think he especially likes Elizabeth Schuyler.”

Martha turned over in bed to face him, shocked, “Really?”

George laughed quietly again, nodding, and so did Martha, who turned back over. “Well,” she said, “how about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? I hope it was okay! Leave a kudos or a comment if you feel so inclined; they make my days! If you're really inclined, leave a prediction for chapter 12 in the comments ;) I think it'll be fun to hear what you all have to say and what you'd like to see :)  
> And see? It was only like 10 days this time! I'm actually updating you guys!  
> Until next time, as always,  
> Your Desire <3


	12. George & Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An adversary, a secretary, a peacock, and a talk.  
> Also known as: Alexander Hamilton's patience runs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time but hear me out... college.  
> That's all; enjoy the chapter!

“Come on, Sheila, I need you to talk to some of your people, see if you can get them to work with me on this.”

The woman just shook her head, “You can’t even get the Senate Democrats on board right now, George. How am I supposed to convince my colleagues to support this bill when it can’t pass the Senate?”

“Don’t you think this is an important issue?”

“Of course I do. I oppose the Defense of Marriage Act as strongly as you do; I want to give these people the respect they deserve across the entire nation, but I can’t put my energy toward supporting a bill that’s destined to fail.”

“You don’t know that it will fail.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, George,” the woman said, strongly, “the Democrats are holding onto the Senate by the skin of their teeth, and don’t tell _me_ you think you can take the house in the midterms.”

“Well, Congresswoman, I was hoping _you_ could help us find some support in the house –”  

“You barely have the majority, and even with the odd Republican Senator who will get on board with this, you won’t be able to find enough votes to pass this bill. People just aren’t ready.”

“We’ll find the votes on our end, I just need you to –”

“To take away my time and concentration from the issues of Texas?”

“You can’t be implying that there aren’t any homosexual people in Texas?”

“Of course I’m not, George, but I’m telling you that I have bigger fish to fry. I’m trying to keep my own colleagues from enacting laws that would essentially cause mass disenfranchisement, and you want me to put voting rights on hold for a doomed gay marriage bill?”

“Sheila –”

George was interrupted by the sharp, shrill ringing of a phone, and he briefly began to reach toward his desk phone before realizing the ringing was coming his cell in his pocket. He dug it out in irritation, ready to put it on silent before seeing what was on the screen. _Jackson International School_.

Alex.

He briefly looked up at Congresswoman Jackson-Lee, looking at him patiently from across the desk. The slightest moment of deliberation, and then –

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “can we continue this in just a moment –”

The woman simply shook her head and stood, pushing the heavy chair out behind her, “take the call, George. This conversation is over.” She turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her. George cursed, the ringtone still filling the room and his head. He accepted the call, his simple “yes?” sounding more put-upon than the poor Jackson International School office staff probably deserved.

_“Senator Washington?”_

“Speaking.”

_“Very sorry to interrupt your busy schedule, sir, but I’m calling you about your foster son, Mr. Hamilton. There’s been an incident.”_

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

It had probably been a long time coming, but even so, it all happened so fast.

The whispers from the other students had slowly grown into murmurs, until not even a well-aimed glare from Angelica could silence them. And it became more and more obvious that Alex did not belong in the position he was in.

The teachers and staff of the school did their best, he had to admit. They tried to enforce fairness and courtesy among all the students, but there was only so much they could oversee, only so much they could do to intervene. And like all clever young people, the students at Jackson International knew how to conceal their actions from authority figures.

And so the rumors and snide comments continued, and despite Alex’s best efforts, he grew less and less comfortable at school, until he really began to believe again that he didn’t belong there at all.

And it got worse.

Jackson International was full of intelligent students, and as such, classes often spiraled off topic and moved from lecture to debate. The teachers, for the most part, encouraged this kind of thinking. They always said that they fostered discussion in their classrooms, that discussion was an important part of learning.

And Alex could never stay away from a debate.

They started small, but escalated quickly, going from hypotheticals in his history and literature classes to debates on current events, and every comment was more pointed in the politically-charged city of D.C. Alex wasn’t the only student at the school from a politician’s family, and it seemed that some of the other students held his foster father in contempt. And by extension, Alex was contemptible as well.

Alex didn’t tell the Washingtons. They already had so much on their plate, George and Martha, and Alex would think about the defeated set of George’s shoulders after a hard day, and about Martha falling asleep on the couch and staying quiet during dinner, and when they asked him how school was, he always told them it was just fine. Because nothing had happened yet, really. And maybe because he was afraid of what they’d think if they thought something was happening.

And the students in class talked about immigrants this, and government handouts that, and Alex only became more and more incensed at each pass at him.

And then one Monday morning, after particularly heated debate in his first-period history class in which Alex delivered a clapback that left one Charles Lee red in the face, he walked out into the hall to find the boy in question waiting. Three other friends behind him Arms crossed.

Alex just sighed, trying not to betray how his heartrate sped slightly at the sight, and how he suddenly found himself more on edge. But he spoke, confidently as he could.

“Really?” he said, looking as skeptical as he could manage. “You’re going to gang up on me? Your point was stupid, Lee, and you know it. Leave me alone.” He stepped to the side, and the other boy stepped with him.

“Funny to hear someone like you calling _me_ stupid, Hamilton,” the boy sneered. “Seeing as you’ve probably never gone to a real school in your life before your foster family paid your way.” He looked Alex up and down in that _way_.

But Alex just scoffed, “What the fuck is that even supposed to mean, Lee?”

“It means,” the boy said, stepping into Alex’s space, which was frustrating, mostly because he was taller than Alex and he had to crane his neck just to look the other boy in the eye. But he didn’t back down, and Lee continued, softer, threatening, “You’re out of your depth, Hamilton, and you know it.”

“Out of my depth?” Alex just laughed, taking a step back, “in case you don’t remember, Lee, I blew your stupid argument out of the water in class today. And, you know,” he added, rolling his eyes, “in every debate we’ve had so far. I’d say I’m doing just fine. Thanks for your concern though.”

He said it flippantly, and as he turned to walk away he felt a hand on his backpack yanked him backwards, spinning him around, and setting his heart racing as he quickly slipped out of the straps; _this_ was what he was used to, instincts from previous schools and the group home taking over.

If it was a fight they wanted, Alex knew how to deal with that.

Lee was left holding Alex’s backpack but no Alex, and he dropped the bag to the floor in frustration, kicking it aside. “Look, Hamilton,” he spat, Alex standing right where he was, adrenaline coursing through him, “you walk around here like you’re hot shit; you’re not fooling anybody.” Lee moved toward him, Alex backing away in turn, “You think you deserve to be here? I don’t care what ‘family’ you’re staying with, you’ll always be just another piece of immigrant trash.” Alex kept backing away until his back hit the wall, and Lee crowded into his space, his friends behind him, and Alex trapped.

“We all know you’re only here because George Washington needed good press. Thought some poor bastard kid like you would get it for him You’re a pathetic figure, Hamilton.

“I’d say that out of the two of us, you’re the one who’s pathetic, Lee,” he bit back, but his voice came out weaker than he’d intended and it wasn’t even a good comeback to begin with, and his anger only grew when he saw the smirk on the other boy’s face.

“Keep telling yourself that, Hamilton,” he sneered again, and Alex moved quickly to retrieve his backpack as Lee and his friends laughed behind him. He was shaking with adrenaline, anger and hurt and shame, as they laughed and jeered,

“– stupid –”

“– fucking pathetic–”

And then Charles’ voice –

“– what else could expect from the son of an immigrant whore –”

And Alex saw red.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

George immediately sat up in his chair, imagining the worst. “What incident?”

_“Alexander punched another student this morning after his first class. He’s being sent home for the day and further disciplinary action will be looked into. He needs to be picked up from school as soon as possible. We attempted to call your wife, but she was unavailable.”_

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and then George just sat back in his desk chair, his forehead falling to make contact with the palm of his hand. “I see,” he said blankly, his mind on a frantic loop of _how did this happen_ , Alex said school was fine, Alex said there were no problems, Alex wasn’t a violent person, Alex had hardly been anything but so, so good since the moment he walked through their door.

_“Senator Washington?”_ Th voice from the phone snapped him out of it, _“If it’s too much trouble for you to come get Alex, we can put him in in-school suspension for the day and keep him in the office until this evening.”_

George felt a pang in his heart at _if it’s too much trouble_. Alex wasn’t trouble. Alex had been a bit closed off, distrustful, when he came to stay with them, and still was sometimes. Alex still had difficulty talking about life anything dating farther back than a few months ago. Alex didn’t accept any kindness from the Washingtons, not even a simple compliment, without looking like he was trying to find the catch, the thing that would come back to burn him. Alex lost his temper that one time at Martha, Alex was fourteen and smarter than George by a mile. Alex _wasn’t_ too much trouble.

He glanced at the clock and it wasn’t even ten yet, and he thought of Alex spending all day siting by himself in a corner of the front office awaiting punishment from all sides, and staying there into the evening because he was _too much trouble_ for anyone to come pick him up.

And Alex had thought George was going to hurt him after he yelled at Martha over a month ago, and Alex was probably terrified now.

And Martha was out of town for the week, George had a meeting in less than twenty minutes.

And then George had an idea. A precaution he’s set up when Alex first started at school in case something happened and both he and Martha were too tied up.

“No,” he said into the phone and then, “I’ll send someone to come get him. She’s in his file and is allowed to check him out of school. Thank you for calling.” The woman on the phone acknowledged flatly and hung up, and George walked across his office and opened the door.

“Cheryl,” he said with a sigh, “I need to ask you a personal favor.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alex hated the school office.

He hated the way the phones rang and the students going in and out with forms and slips and notices and the way every one of them looked him up and down when they came in the door and again when they left, and he hated the stiff and uncomfortable chair that he had to sit on, he hated the windows, too big, too bright, the glass doors, the too-loud clicking of the too-large clock. Hated that Mr. Franklin’s office was right there and that he knew any moment the man might come out to tell him he was suspended for a week, or a month, or that they’d rather he didn’t come back at all and would be refunding a portion of his tuition to George and Martha.

And he hated the words that ran on loop in his head, the awful things Lee had said and the way he’d walked into the office sniveling and the way he’d walked out with a sneer in Alexander’s direction, and he had a nasty black eye and a bloody nose from Alex’s hands, but Alex’s knuckles were beginning to bruise, so angry he’d even forgotten how to fight properly, and he ached from the way Lee’s friends had pulled him away, hard, and slammed him, hard, against the cinderblock walls.

And he hated not knowing what was going to happen next.

And all the time, his mámá’s face in his mind and the word thrumming in him, _whore, whore, whore, whore_. He wanted to scream and cry at the same time, wanted to go to Charles and his friends and say, even though he knew they wouldn’t care in the slightest, that _you didn’t even know her_. Didn’t know the way she smiled or laughed or the way she used to tuck Alex in when he was little, bouncing on the bed and singing a silly song and she made sure he was snug in the blankets and sheets. They didn’t know her face, every last expression and crease, and they didn’t know the way she smelled when she hugged him, and they didn’t know anything at all.

Alex’s eyes were just beginning to water when the door to the office opened and a woman walked in that Alex didn’t recognize. He barely paid her any attention until he heard, just from the corner of his ear, her at the front desk asking for _him_.

And he didn’t know her, and Martha had said this morning that she was going to… where was it? And George was at work and there was a woman at the desk asking for him and _who was she_?

For one long, horrifying moment Alex saw her smart suit and her confident posture and thought that this must be his new social worker; the Washingtons had heard what he did, and they hadn’t even bothered with him, just gave him up. Just like that.

(A tiny part of his brain was politely pointing out that that wasn’t how this worked, Alex come on, but the rest of his anxiety-plagued thoughts didn’t bother to listen.)

And then the receptionist behind the desk gestured to Alex and the woman turned around. Brown eyes, gray suit, impeccable lipstick, and Alex couldn’t pin an age on her, and she walked the few steps across the room to where Alex was shrinking in his chair in a pair of smart heels that reminded him of Kitty’s. Her face was stiffer, though, businesslike, as she reached out a hand and said,

“Alexander? Cheryl Hemmings. I work for Senator Washington.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

George’s phone buzzed on the desk next to him, and a text lit up from Cheryl.

** **Cheryl Hemmings:** Picked Alex up from school. On the way back. Be there in ten. **

George read it quickly, taking note, before turning off the screen. The woman across the desk raised her eyebrows.

“Something wrong, George?”

“Simply a family matter, Senator Warren,” he said, pocketing his phone. “Please continue.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alex sat in the strange woman’s car and learned again how to breathe. That horrible moment in the school office, when he’d thought that maybe the Washingtons’ had heard what he’d done and given up on him… well. He hadn’t realized just how much it had scared him, how terrified he’d                        been until Cheryl Hemmings, in her practical car, drove up to Capitol Hill.

And then, Alexander Hamilton was _on_ _Capitol_ _Hill_.

It was fascinating to see it so close. The capitol building looming above everything, grand and large and imposing, and the steps of what had to be George’s building, and Ms. Hemmings talking him through security, the guards searching his bag and walking him through a metal detector and the large rotunda with the statues and smartly dressed men and women bustling around and rushing by as Ms. Hemmings led him up to the third floor. And then they were stopping at a door.

**Senator George Washington, Virginia** it said. And Ms. Hemmings pushed it open. There was a young woman sitting at the desk, who looked relieved when they came in the door, and then promptly raised her eyebrows at Alex. Alex, who suddenly felt extremely self-conscious standing in the Senate offices in a t-shirt and jeans and with his messy hair spilling everywhere over his shoulders. He shifted his backpack and tried to stand a little taller and looked at the paintings on the walls of the small room.

“Thanks, Isabelle, I’ll take it back from here,” Mrs. Hemmings said quickly, stepping behind the desk, the younger woman yielding gratefully. Mrs. Hemmings checked her watch and murmured something to Isabelle, to which she nodded and hurried out of the room.

And then Ms. Hemmings sat down at the desk and began to scribble something down on the pad in front of her, and Alex stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, shifting his weight and wondering just what he was supposed to do next.

“Alex,” Ms. Hemmings spoke, and Alex snapped his gaze to her, looking at him expectantly, “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” Alex moved to one of the chairs along the wall, a small, stiff thing, and he thought about how he’d gone from one office to another. He looked at the door that had to lead into George’s office (he could just make out voices behind it) and shuddered briefly as he thought about what George must think of him now.

Ms. Hemmings must’ve noticed something was up, because she spoke again, her voice softer and kinder. “Can I get you anything?” she asked, looking at Alex with sympathetic eyes. Alex just shook his head, but the woman opened a drawer in her desk, pulling out a plastic water bottle and tossed it to him. He couldn’t get a grip on it, dropped it with a thud, picked it up sheepishly and held it between his legs and with both hands, and he sat.

The office remained quiet, and the voices from beyond the door remined muffled, and Alex sat and thanked his lucky stars that he was so obsessive about keeping an agenda, because at least half of his homework assignments for the rest of the week were laid out there in front of him and he was able to work, a textbook open on one knee and a notebook on the other, as he furiously took notes on his upcoming history reading, and did his very best not to think of what George would say Alex finally had to face him.

Sure, he’d been understanding before when Alex had… but just the same Alex sat and agonized and tried to weigh personal disrespect versus the inconvenience of having to pull him from school in the middle of the day (hell, not even the middle, he’d only made it through first period), and tried to decide which was the worse sin and where the tipping point was.

He twirled his pen nervously and Ms. Hemmings glanced at him, concerned, from the desk.

And he sat and twirled the pen between his fingers and his mind wandered and his pulse raced, and he could hear, drumming through him, those words, _whore whore whore whore_ , and his mother’s face but it was blurred and he wasn’t sure he could remember it at all, and then the door opened and interrupted his thoughts with the young woman from before, _Isabelle_ , Alex reminded himself, walking back in with a paper bag in her hands, and when Alex looked to Ms. Hemmings she gestured for him to follow Isabelle into a door to the left of her desk.

A door which led to another office area where more men and women in smart suits bustled around cubicles and with coffee cups, and Alex had no idea that George had so much staff, and Isabelle pulled him up a chair in a tiny pseudo-break-room with a coffee machine, and pulled a burger and fries out of the paper bag, handing it to him along with another water bottle.

George’s staff stared but didn’t speak to him as they carried on with their day, and soon he had finished lunch and was back in George’s… outer office? Antechamber? … sitting and waiting with a certain gratefulness that Ms. Hemmings had thought to get him food. Somewhere along the way in the crazy haze of the day, he’d lost track of his lunchbox.

The clock turned to one o’clock, then two o’clock, then three, and George was still in his office and occasionally people would come and go, Ms. Hemmings announcing each one and having a short exchange with George before taking her place back at her desk.

And the rest of the afternoon was filled with Alex worrying. About what the Washigntons would say to him. About what would happen now. About whether he’d be allowed to go back to school. He knew he shouldn’t have done it. He was going to walk away. He was angry, so angry, but he was going to walk away, he knew he was _supposed_ to walk away, he knew that Lee and his friends weren’t worth it, he really did, he just…

The things they _said_ , about him, about his _mámá_ –

And the things Lee said about the Washingtons…

They couldn’t be true, he told himself firmly. He had already gone through this with the Washingtons. They weren’t using him. He wasn’t a political play, he wasn’t, he couldn’t be –

The door opened again, a shadow filling the doorframe.

It wasn’t Isabelle this time.

It was a man.

He probably wasn’t any taller than George but he held himself like he towered. Dark skin, hair that he would absolutely call _voluminous_ and any normal person would call fluffy. His suit looked nicer on him, fit him better than anything he’d seen on any of George’s staff, and it was a deep, deep… purple? The shirt underneath a shocking purple-pink. He wore cologne so heavy it seemed to fill the room the moment he entered, and the sharp cut of his jaw and his nose stood out as his eyes scanned each corner of the room. He was the first man Alex had seen all day arrive to the office with his own staff trailing behind.

He didn’t look at Alex, strode right to Ms. Hemmings’ desk and leaned over it leisurely, one hand clutching the edge.

“Hello, darlin’,” his voice came out in a languid drawl as he towered over Ms. Hemmings in her chair, too close even for Alex’s comfort. He thought he saw the man’s eyes flit down to her chest and his blood ran hot.

If Ms. Hemmings noticed, she didn’t acknowledge it, utterly professional, simply looking back and firmly stating, “Mr. Jefferson. The Senator cannot see you today; his schedule is very busy, and he had to decline your request.”

“Now, dear, George doesn’t have to decline a meeting with an old friend just to look impartial.” Alex could practically see George’s secretary counting to ten in her head. “Besides, we are soon to be colleagues, after all. You can work me in, can’t you, sweetheart?”

“ _Mister_ Jefferson,” Ms. Hemmings said, looking very much as though she’d like to pry his hand off of her desk. “Soon to be colleagues is not the same thing as _being_ colleagues and therefore you are subject to the same scheduling procedures as the rest of the _general_ _public_. I will tell you again; Senator Washington cannot see you today. You will have to either wait until after the election,” she looked him once up and down, appraising, and continued, “to schedule a meeting, or you will have to file another request. But as for today, I’m afraid the Senator cannot see you. He has another meeting lined up presently.”

The man in purple frowned, pushing himself off the desk and standing up tall, looking around the room as though to assess exactly who had _dared_ to be scheduled over his non-appointment, and his eyes fell on Alex, who once again felt quite small and shabby in his stiff chair.

“I see,” Jefferson said, looking at Alex disdainfully, and turned to his staff. “Photo-op,” he stage-whispered, and the men on his staff laughed, and on top of all of the other insults Alex had endured that day his blood ran hot and he leapt up from his chair and opened his mouth to say –

“Is something the matter, Cheryl?”

The door to George’s office had opened and he was standing there, his large frame commanding the room. And oh, Alex had never seen him at work. He knew George at home. George at work looked very, very different. He had never seen him look like this before, never seen him stand this tall, never seen the look that now dominated his face. _This_ was Senator Washington, when Alex had grown to know George.

Needless to say, it was a little disorienting.

Jefferson must have noticed it too, because he stood straight, no longer cocking his hip, some of the swagger falling away, even as his staff shrank smaller behind him. “George,” he said, his voice dripping with a cloying sweetness that made Alex’s skin crawl.

“Mr. Jefferson,” George said, “welcome home.” His voice was warm, but politely so. “Is there something I can do for you?” And Ms. Hemmings shot Jefferson a scathing look.

“Actually, sir,” he drawled, “I wanted to speak to you about a matter of my campaign…” George shook his head.

“We will speak _after_ the election, Thomas,” he said, quietly. “Until then, you have my best wishes.” Jefferson looked as though he wanted to respond, but George talked over him. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I need to speak to my foster son.” And then all eyes in the room were on Alex.

Alex, who looked back into George’s eyes and saw in them weariness, disappointment, and worse than all, frustration.

Alex, who picked up his backpack, feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds, and who was keenly aware of his aching back and his aching hand, and who walked the thousand miles from his chair and to the door of George’s office, his heart pounding and his mind wising he could just disappear, disappear, disappear.

And he heard the door to George’s office swing shut behind him.

The voices, the bustle from the outer office was cut off suddenly. Alex didn’t turn around. He could hear George moving behind him, and he didn’t turn around. He looked at George’s desk, the papers spread across it, a picture frame that he could see propped up on its stand, the heavy curtains and across the window, the heavy carpet under his shoes. And he could feel George standing somewhere behind him, by the door, and he couldn’t stop thinking about that look in George’s eyes. The frustration in them, the look like…

He had seen it on other foster parents before. He’d said _I need to speak to my foster son_ , but he’d looked like he meant _I have to deal with my foster son_.

And that’s what Alex was, wasn’t he? Something to be dealt with.

Here he was, standing in a Senate office in the Capital city, in borrowed clothes and with a borrowed phone in his pocket, with a borrowed family to boot. He stood there and he looked at the opulence of George’s office, and he thought about how for a moment, he believed he actually _belonged_ there.

What a fucking joke.

George shifted behind him. “Son –”

“I’m not your son,” Alex spat. He didn’t even bother to turn around.

George sighed, exasperated because of fucking course he was, and then, “Alex, we need to talk about what happened today at school.”

Alex gritted his teeth. “You can’t have anything to say that I haven’t heard a thousand times already,” he said angrily, glaring away from it all at the curtained window.

“Alex,” George’s voice came so tiredly, “why can’t you just stay out of fights?”

But Alex didn’t care how tired the man sounded, because of course they would all blame it on Alex. Of course it was his fucking fault. It didn’t matter that Lee came for him, that Lee and his friends ganged up on him. None of that mattered. Because Alex was the immigrant bastard, and that would always be the determining factor in _everyone’s_ opinion of him.

So he whirled around to look George Washington right in his goddamn eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he hissed, “does that look bad? Am I ruining the image of your _fucking_ foster project again?” He ignored the man’s look, obviously taken aback at Alex’s words, but Alex didn’t think he deserved a scrap of pity. For all that he talked about being a family, he had sent his fucking secretary to deal with Alex, had sat him in his office for hours and ignored him. And Alex, Alex had sat there like a fucking idiot, hoping that things would be different this time, only to be asked why he _couldn’t just stay out of fights_ for the thousandth time.

_I can’t change where I’m from_. He wanted to scream it at George. _I can’t get away from it. People will always hate me no matter where I go_.

Another exasperated sigh, and George started again, “son –”

“I am _not_ your _fucking_ son!”

Silence. George walked past Alex and sat down on one of the fine couches around the coffee table in the center of his office, between Alex and the desk. He sat with his back to Alex and Alex watched him with wary eyes and long, long moments ticked past on the clock as Alex felt the anger slowly drain away, watched George reach out for a water bottle that had been sitting on the table, take a long drink.

George’s shoulders were tired, his posture more worn down than most days Alex had seen him. He wondered, for a moment, if George would become like one of those pictures of politicians you always saw online, where you could look at them year to year, and see them age from the stress of their job.

Or maybe the stress their foster kid caused them.

And Alex stood there and thought about how yesterday he’d chatted openly with both the Washingtons over the dinner table, and how they deserved better than his distrust, and he moved very slowly and sat down on the couch opposite George, and waited while the man looked wearily at him.

“You know, Alex, that we do have to talk about this.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry if I sounded… accusatory earlier. It’s been a long day.”

Silence.

“I probably should have started by asking you what happened.”

“Yes,” Alex said simply. He never would have tried a move like that with a previous foster parent. He didn’t know why he did now. Maybe a test. A test to see if he was wrong about everything and George would react negatively.

He didn’t.

“Would you like to tell me what happened, Alex?”

Lee’s words cut as sharply through him as they did that morning, and all the anger and stress and hurt that had been lingering in the back of his mind all day came flooding back in an overwhelming rush, and it was difficult to recount what had happened, but Alex repeated all the words, told George about how Lee and his friends had cornered him after class, how he’d tried to walk away, he had, until he couldn’t anymore.

And George? George listened to all of it, and when Alex was done,

“Well,” he said, “that certainly changes things.” Then, “may I see your hand?”

Alex held his hand, the bruised knuckles, and George came to sit next to him on the couch, taking Alex’s hand in his, pressing on different areas and asking him how it felt.

“It’ll be fine,” he eventually said, letting Alex draw his hand back to his side. There was another thick silence, Alex steeped in that blank feeling that came after adrenaline drains away.

“You know you can’t hit people you don’t agree with, Alex,” George said into the quiet room. But he said it not like he was giving instruction. He said it like Alex already knew it. He did. And something about that little display of trust, something about that sentiment, like George’s words were a reminder, not an instruction, broke the residual ice between them.

“It wasn’t just a disagreement,” Alex replied.

“I know,” George said, and turned toward Alex with an utterly sympathetic look on his face. “I know. And I understand what it feels like, Alex, I do. I’m an African-American Senator from Virginia. I’ve been called my fair share of unpleasant things over the years. My name’s been through a lot.”

Alex sat, and looked at George Washington, and wondered how he had never even considered that. That of course George had faced prejudice, probably dealt with it every day of his _life_ , still. The man continued to speak in his quiet, measured pace.

“The thing is, Alex,” he said, “you have to have something to keep your eye on. Something that will help you keep your head above water when this stuff comes your way. I wish I could say that this is the last time someone is going to look down on you for the color of your skin, or for where you were born, but it isn’t. You’re smart enough to know it isn’t.

“You have to be able to take the high road.” Alex looked away, stared at the soft rug on the office floor. “And I know it’s hard. It’s been life-long work for me to learn patience, believe me,” the man said, with a laugh that held no humor. “You remind me of myself when I was younger.”

Alex couldn’t say anything to that. That was dangerous emotional territory, that was a path he couldn’t tread, not now. So he changed the subject. “What do you keep your eye on?” he asked, voice barely audible. “What keeps your head above water?”

George let out a long breath. “I guess I just want to make change.” He said, finally, “I want to do things here that can help move this country forward, get everyone the respect they deserve. I hope,” he said, “that through some of my efforts I can change the way people operate in the world for the better, change the way they see each other for the better.”

“It’s slow,” he said, quieter. “You can try everything and progress still moves so slowly. Some days I wonder if people will ever learn.” Alex, in all his time with the Washingtons, had never heard such gravity in George’s voice, such bare honesty. It was shocking and raw and strange. “The political climate of this country is getting more dangerous by the day,” he continued, “It’s a bad time for people like you, Alex, people who’ve immigrated into this country looking for a better life. If I could remove that stigma from your head today, Alex, I would. Believe me, I would. And I’m sorry that you have to deal with it. I’m sorry that it’s being pushed onto you. You’ve done nothing to merit these people calling you inferior. Alex, look at me.”

He did, and George looked back with grave, focused eyes.

“You are a brilliant young man. You have passion and intelligence and drive, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You are inferior to no one, Alex, believe me. And Martha and I would be ecstatic to have you with us no matter what you were like. Those things Charles Lee said about you and you family? They are not true in the slightest. Not one bit.”

Alex bowed his head. Took a shaky breath and felt tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. He blinked them away as George squeezed his shoulder, strong and reassuring.

“I know it’s hard, Alex,” George said, “I’m sorry it’s so hard. But you are _right_ to stand up for yourself and your ideas, and I never want you to let go of that.

“But it can’t be with violence.” Alex looked up at George, and the man looked back kindly and gravely. “If you hit a man,” he said, “sure, he’ll never disrespect you again. But if you change his mind,” and here he squeezed Alex’s shoulder, “then he’ll never disrespect anyone again, and _that_ is our goal, Alex. To change people’s minds and hearts. _That_ is how we make things better.”

And for once that day, Alex didn’t have a comeback, and didn’t feel like he had anything to prove. He just placed his hand over George’s still resting on his shoulder, and took deep, shuddering breaths and the two of them sat there in silence, until, quietly, George said,

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't tell, my feelings about the state of the world snuck into the end of this here. And when it comes to punching people, refrain my lovelies (or at least do it AFTER SCHOOL ALEX COME ON. Have you learned nothing?).  
> As always, the kudos and the comments brighten my day when I feel myself burning out of writing power, so leave one if you are so inclined! :)  
> I am always,  
> Your Desiree <3


	13. Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Peggy confides in me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses to give, only the offering of a new chapter, for those of you still paying attention. Enjoy :)

It was good to be back at school.

Alex knew that most kids his age wouldn’t necessarily share the sentiment, that school was the punishment and staying home the reward, but Alex felt as though his life was put on hold when Mr. Franklin said he was suspended from school for the rest of the week, no matter how fascinating it was to watch the world go by at George’s work.

But on that side of things, it felt good when his foster father’s staff started to learn his name, and it was a whole week away from those antagonizing him at school. Ms. Hemmings was endlessly kind and welcoming to him, and a couple of those days George took him out to lunch in the city, stepping out of the office for an hour or two with Alex despite his busy schedule.

D.C. was fascinating, especially on the hill. Alex watched with wide-eyed wonder as the other Senators walked past him and his foster father, on their way to lunches and meeting and more, and one day, he was almost positive he saw the president’s motorcade rolling down a D.C. avenue. The days were cool and beautiful, and George looked larger than life in his suit and coat, a scarf hanging loosely around his neck, the fringe fluttering in the wind like the flag atop the capitol building.

The man looked at Alex differently now than he had before. Alex and Mr. Washington had been friendly ever since the night of Alex’s school interview, but now there was something… beyond that. George looked at Alex like he knew something Alex didn’t, something that made him sad and happy at the same time, and he looked almost vulnerable, too, and it was strange but Alex was beginning to realize that he didn’t really mind.

He had a passing thought that if he could see himself, he might notice that he was looking differently at Mr. Washington, too.

The evenings of that week were as nice as the days, with the two of them going home and cooking together, George throwing together some food and Alex laughing at him from his perch sitting on the kitchen island with his legs hanging off the side, or from the kitchen table while bent over homework. They talked some more, too, the two of them, a little about the fight, and a little about their troubles in a more general sense, and a little about George’s work, and then Friday came and Martha came home.

And there was a shift in her, too, he thought, the quiet, thoughtful way she looked at the both of them, but he decided that nothing was obviously wrong, and so he shouldn’t worry about it.

He still worried. He worried about the fight and everything that had gone on at school, he worried every day that the rug would be pulled out from under him, that Lee’s parents or someone would make Franklin kick him out. That maybe Lee wasn’t right before, maybe Alex _had_ gotten into Jackson International by his own merit, but now after the fight… maybe the only thing keeping him there was George’s money and George’s name.

And maybe he’d fucked that up all on his own, and it nothing to do with his “background” or his name, just Alex and his own hot temper, ruining the good things that came his way.

He didn’t tell George. He knew he should tell him, should confide in him, knew that if he told him George would probably be able to push away his fears, that George would tell him that none of that was true, that he’d have a hundred reasons that Alex was valuable and talented and…

And Alex still didn’t tell him. Or Martha.

He thought about it, but the words just never came. A rare occurrence for him.

And the next Monday, Alex went back to school.

And it was so good to be back.

That morning, as he stepped out of George’s car he saw the Schuyler sisters perched on the wall by the front steps, almost in the same place Alex had seen them on his first day, but now wearing sweaters and jeans and letting the cool October breeze ruffle their hair.

He’d missed classes. He’d missed the Schuylers. He’d missed _Eliza_.

Eliza had texted Alex on the very same day as the fight to ask if he was okay; she’d kept track of all his assignments for the rest of the week, carefully sending them to him so that when he came back he was already completely caught up. She smiled at him on that Monday morning, outside and waiting for him, Angelica by her side with another one of her undecipherable looks, and Peggy on her phone.

Eliza hugged him, her perfume sweet, said “we missed you” quietly in his ear, and Angelica punched him in the shoulder, telling him he did a good job, Eliza promptly scolding her for encouraging Alex’s behavior.

“What can I say, Eliza? Lee deserved it. If I had been there _I_ probably would have kicked his ass.”

And Peggy? Peggy stayed on her phone until the bell rang.

And Alex walked into the school with his held high, feeling the many sets of eyes on him as he and Angelica split the hallways down the middle, Alex ignoring the looks, and Angelica responding with glares and the occasional raised eyebrow as if to say, “problem?” Alex had Angelica Schuyler’s seal of approval, and no one at all of Jackson International would dare argue with that.

The look on Charles Lee’s face when Alex walked into first period history with Eliza was priceless. Fury, and beneath that, shame, and any pride he tried to muster was undercut by the residual bruised tissue from his black eye. Alex was ready to say something to Lee, but Eliza frowned at him again, so he just sat down in his desk, next to hers, and watched as their teacher walked into the room and informed them all there would be no discussion in class that day.

Not all fun was lost, though.

He and Eliza passed notes in class.

They’d been doing it for weeks, and sure, it would be easier, and more discreet to text. But Alex liked to write, liked the personal feel of letting his hand drag across the paper, ink from the pen crafting long, rambling sentences that felt more like paragraphs, and Eliza’s small handwriting, the careful, looping words in blue ink as she passed the paper back. It was fun. Today, it took longer than usual, and it was close to the end of class before a slip of notebook paper slid onto his desk with the words

_Halloween is next week. Any plans?_

A quick swipe of his pen,

_Never without you, Betsey. Anything in mind?_

She rolled her eyes at the affectionate nickname he had given her

The bell rang.

“My sisters and I, we usually have a little gathering.” Eliza said as they packed up their bags, flipping her long hair over one shoulder. “We usually bake something, watch movies… it’s small, but…” she trailed off, shrugged. Suddenly looked, to Alexander, a little nervous, and he saw her light blush take over her cheeks. “We haven’t invited many boys in the past, and it’s usually Peggy’s friends more than any of ours, so I understand if you don’t want to spend your time with a lot of girls, but I just thought that maybe… you would want to come,” she finished quietly, not meeting Alex’s eyes. And Alex could feel a blush overtaking his own face, a tingling along his spine, and he answered quiet as she did.

“I’ll ask the Washingtons, but it… it sounds like fun.” Eliza looked up and her smile almost blinded him.

“Great,” she said, a tad breathlessly, and then, “I’ll… text you about it.” And without another word, she turned and walked quickly away.

Alex watched her go, his face still covered in a furious blush, and his thoughts scattered.

The bell rang.

“Shit,” Alex said, and ran to his next class.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

The Washingtons were plenty receptive when Alex asked if he could spend the night at the Schuylers’; they asked him for little information about it: a few questions about when, and who would be there. But all in all, they seemed happy to let him go after a little deliberation. Senator Schuyler would be there, and they were fond of the Schuyler girls. They were more than happy to let him go spend time with his friends.

Alex pretended he didn’t see Martha’s knowing smile to George he moved to go back upstairs, or the way she raised her eyebrows. He wasn’t sure how that smile made him feel. And eh wasn’t all that eager to confront it.

But beside that, he was… surprisingly excited. It had been a long time since anyone had asked him to come over. A very long time. Maybe never… Alex couldn’t remember.

It felt _so good_ to have friends.

He’d never really had any before.

The week passed quickly, it seemed. Halloween was on the Wednesday of next week, but they could hardly have a party on a Wednesday, Eliza said, so on Saturday the 27th, Alex climbed into Mr. Washingtons’ car, and they made the drive down to D.C., Alex’s backpack tucked down by his feet with an old rolled-up sleeping bag from the Washingtons’ garage, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a change of clothes. He felt unreasonably anxious, somehow, all the days leading up to the party, and now, fidgeting in the car next to Mr. Washington, saying nothing.

Mr. Washington only sat, just as quiet as Alex, with his wife’s knowing smile on his face.

A smile that Alex firmly ignored.

Because that was entirely too much… _something_ to think about right now.

The car rolled quietly down the afternoon streets of D.C., past the capitol building, Alex craning his neck as they drove past, trees bursting with firey colors almost glowing in the sharp afternoon light, leaves drifting to the ground in a gentle breeze, carved pumpkins and tombstones in people’s yards in anticipation of the coming holiday. Cars parked on either side of the road. And then, finally, George pulled up in front of the Schuylers’ D.C. home.

812 East Capitol St NE.

Alex looked at the address on his phone, the one that Eliza had sent him before they had both remembered that the Washingtons already knew perfectly well where the home was and how to get there. But all the same it had felt like an _invitation_. It was official, there was no going back now.

“Alex?” he heard George ask. Turned his head.

“Would you like me to walk up with you?” he said, “I can stop in, say hi to Philip for a minute.” He knew Alex was nervous. He could tell. He was giving him an out.

But Alex shrugged it off, shook his head. “I’ve got it,” he said, “thanks.” Got out of the car, walked around and stood on the sidewalk, backpack slung over his shoulder as he looked up at the house, on the end of a row of townhouses, three stories high and done in red brick with white trim. Like the inverse of the Washington home, with its bright white siding and reddish accents and the country rolling out impossibly wide around it.

“Alex?” He turned back to look at Mr. Washington once more. The man leaning a little over the rolled-down window of the car. “You can text me or Martha anytime, if you need anything. If you want to go, you just call and we’ll come get you, okay? No matter what time of night it is.” Alex nodded. George smiled a little. “You have a good time, son,” he said, and he had driven off down the street before Alex could tell the man not to call him that.

He turned again, walked up the path to the house, and knocked, three times on the dark painted wood of the door, heard footsteps coming from inside, voices calling out.

And he was face to face with Elizabeth Schuyler, lovely as always in a dark green sweater, Alex’s favorite color, her dark hair spilling all over her shoulders. Her dark eyes twinkling.

For a moment, she took Alex’s breath away.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” from him, and then she was ushering him inside the door and he was kicking off his shoes and putting down his bag and following her through the living room, and the dining room, and into the expansive kitchen, a door to a small back garden swinging open and shut as various girls went in and out, and Alex caught through the glass a glimpse of Peggy, laughing, smiling as wide as he’d ever seen. Then a call of his name.

Angelica, leaning on the counter and smiling at him even as Nathaniel Pendleton snuck up behind her with a handful of flour expertly poised to be deposited on her head at any moment.

Alex cringed as the flour came down, powdering Angelica’s hair and getting on her face and shoulders and making her quite a sight as she whirled on poor Nate, who was only laughing for a moment.

Looking decidedly more resigned in the corner of the room, Alex spotted David Hosack, a boy in Angelica’s year who nodded politely at Alex before coming over to say hello. Alex didn’t know David well, but he seemed nice enough, intelligent though a bit soft-spoken, and Alex was glad that with David and Nate there he wasn’t the only boy at the Schuylers’ little gathering.

It truly was a party of Peggy’s friends, just as Eliza had said, he thought, as he looked out into the back, a gaggle of girls giggling over the youngest Schuyler, who was making a face as she scooped seeds out of a pumpkin. Angelica and Eliza, it seemed, had invited fewer people, their guest list extending, at the moment, to him, Nate, and David.

The thought that Peggy was _popular_ hit Alex suddenly and abruptly, and then was promptly put out of his mind as –

Eliza laughed, lovely and bright, at Nate and Angelica’s antics as the two raced around the kitchen, and Alex thought he just saw Peggy glare in the direction of the house before the doorbell rang, pealing through the house, and Angelica checked her phone.

“I’ll get it,” she said shooting Nate another glare, doing her best to brush the flour off of her clothes and face (to little success, Alex observed with sympathy) as she made her way to the door. Nate shouted a hello to Alexander as Eliza pulled him over to the counter, moving the baking materials firmly out of Nate’s reach, and beginning another batch of cupcakes.

Before the Washingtons, it had been a while since Alex cooked. A few foster parents had him help out in the kitchen, sure, but it was almost always doing dishes, and after a while, his… reputation had kept any more families from allowing him anywhere near the various sharp things to be found in a kitchen.

And Alex missed cooking.

His mámá could cook like no one else. He’d always thought that, and a part of him believed he always would. Maybe he was biased because she was his mother, maybe everyone thought their favorite parent was the best cook in the world, but whether it was fact or interpretation, Alex believed it with all his heart.

They hadn’t always had the most to work with, sure, but his mámá had brought with her from the Caribbean recipes that she had eaten all her life, and on the good days when Alex was young, he would pull up his stool in their tiny kitchen, standing on tip-toe, trying to get the best vantage point he could, and watch as his mother’s gentle hands went through well-practiced, well-worn motions and her voice talked him through each dish, time and time again until he could prompt her with what came next.

And sure, Alex had helped with a thing or two in the kitchen since he came to stay with the Washingtons, had cooked with George for a week while Martha was gone, but it wasn’t the same.

It was never the same. It pained him to think that it probably never would be.

But standing there in the Schuyler kitchen, laughing along with Eliza as she put ingredients into the mixer, he was happy. The room was bright, there was music playing in the background, some generic pop song, and Alex was surrounded by the laughter of friends and the smell of vanilla and chocolate and sugar in the air.

Angelica came back with two girls that Alex recognized as Phillis Wheatley (Phil, to most) and Sybil Ludington. Phil was in Angelica’s year, Alex thought, and Sybil he recognized from seeing in the hallways or the cafeteria (often sporting a t-shirt for some marathon or another), though they didn’t know each other terribly well. There was a moment of introduction, and then another cloud of flour in the air, and Angelica’s voice saying “Nate I am going to _kill_ you,” and then the laughter of new and reluctant friends and bouncy pop songs and the evening sun filtering in through the window.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alex had to hand it to Eliza. The girl could make some _serious_ cupcakes.

She had waved his compliments off with a laugh and a sweet blush and said that he had helped, it wasn’t just her, but Alex knew that his “helping” was nothing more than following her instructions.

“At least you weren’t throwing the flour around,” Angelica grouched good-naturedly as they all feasted on pizza and chips and other assorted party junk-food in the Schuyler’s basement. Peggy and her friends had the main floor, and the other sisters, along with their guests, had been banished to the basement.

Not that it was much of a banishment. There were couches a-plenty and a TV screen larger than the Washingtons’ and it was the kind of house that Alex hadn’t dreamed of stepping foot in before he came to Virginia.

He thought about the expensive clothes and the phone in his pocket and his own bathroom at the Washingtons’ house and he squirmed and felt like a fraud.

They finished dinner, then moved onto games, and Angelica got _entirely_ too into Clue, Alex noted, as he and Nate traded terrified looks at her gruesome descriptions of the murders, then UNO, which was Eliza’s game, and then a hearty debate on whether _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ was a Halloween movie or a Christmas movie (David Hosack chimed in with the opinion that he always watched it at Thanksgiving, to straddle both holidays evenly), followed by a screening of the aforementioned film, and then Senator Schuyler came downstairs to check on them, giving Alex subtly appraising look in the process, too similar to his daughter’s, before retiring back upstairs for the night.

And Angelica smiled wickedly.

“Alright kids,” she said, “now the real fun begins.”

Before Alex was able to question what qualified as “real fun” (he had thoroughly enjoyed himself thus far), Angelica reached under the couch and whipped out a simple, black box, pushing every ottoman, footrest, pillow, and snack (to Nate’s disappointment), out of the way as she slammed the box down on the floor in the middle of the sort-of circle they were in.

“It’s cards against humanity time, kids,” Angelica said, wickedly.

“Fuck yes,” said Nate.

Hosack just smiled.

And Phil said, “I’m _older_ than you, _Angie_ ,”

“Don’t call me Angie –”

“Then don’t call me kid.”

“What’s cards against humanity?” Alex dared to question amid the rabble.

And everyone looked.

And surprisingly, Sybil Ludington was the one who looked at him with an expression like a wolf sizing up its prey and said,

“Oh, good. I love a newbie’s first game.” Then a wider smile, slightly more terrifying, “you’re in for a treat, Hamilton.”

And boy, was he.

Eliza initially protested that it was “too early for cards,” (though it was nearly midnight), which was overruled by Angelica’s assertion that they were more likely to stay awake watching scary movies than playing cards, as the game, while fun, was of little use when it came to sleepiness, and since Senator Schuyler had not allowed them access to caffeination at this time of night, they’d have to do the best they could with other stimuli, in this case fear. The evening would have to escalate in scariness as they went along, and cards was not scary.

Eliza yielded to this logic, and the game began.

Alex quickly caught on to exactly what kind of game this was, and he also began to realize that Eliza, delicate and gentle and elegant as she seemed, had a sardonic streak a mile wide.

It was an interesting, though not at all unwelcome discovery.

Alex was the one fortunate enough to possess the card reading “firing a rifle into the air while balls deep in a squealing hog,” and after a particularly good play, the game ended with them all in a heap, laughing their asses off, while Nate suggested they go down the street to the Smithsonian museum of natural history and pitch the exhibit idea the next day.

There were also complaints from Sybil that Alex had miraculously won on his first time playing the game.

“Beginner’s luck,” she said, shaking her head at him. Alex just smiled and winked.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

“You pick the _worst_ movies, Angie,” Eliza groaned later after the kids took a much-needed break to gather more snacks and pillows and things, change into pajamas, and pretend, as teenagers do, to brush their teeth, all the while fooling no one.

“I do _not_ , and _stop_ calling me Angie,” Angelica retorted, comparing several remotes in her hands, pointing them at the entertainment system ( _entertainment system_ where the hell did Alex think he _was_ ), “I can never figure out which of these damn things…”

“They’re always either too scary and no one can sleep, or they’re boring, or they’re entirely off theme.” Eliza retorted. Alex watched the two go back in forth in amusement. Sybil and Philis were talking about something quietly to each other, Nate was sitting up against an ottoman and surreptitiously pulling various snacks out of sight of the sisters, and David Hosack just sat, looking at his phone.

Angelica pulled up Netflix.

“My movie choices are fine, sister dear, and besides, I already had an idea.” Angelica began to flip through the movies. “It’s called _Contagion_. It came out last year.”

“See?” Eliza gestured to her sister, catching the attention of the other girls, “entirely off theme. I told you.” Sybil Ludington snickered.

The eldest Schuyler threw her hands up in exasperation. “What’s _wrong_ with it, Eliza?”

“Angelica you really want to watch an epidemic movie for Halloween?”

“It’s a thriller.”

“It’s not seasonally appropriate.”

“It’s scary!”

“What is it about again? The flu? _How_ is that scary? It’s _Halloween_ , Angelica.”

“There is nothing more frightening than watching the human race be slowly wiped off the face of the Earth, and realizing that with all our scientific knowledge, we are powerless to stop it.”

“Truth,” Hosack chimed in from his spot on the couch. Sybil laughed again. Apparently, she got giggly late at night.

“Still, Angie, you can’t come up with anything better –”

“It’s got Matt Damon in it.”

Philis smirked knowingly, and all eyes turned to Eliza as the room went quiet.

“Objection retracted,” she said quietly, getting up, “I’ll go get more popcorn.”

Phil shook her head. “You’re diabolical, Angie –”

“Don’t call me that –”

“You can’t just use Matt Damon against a poor innocent fourteen-year-old girl like that.”

Nate caught Alex’s attention and rolled his eyes, pulling out some doritos and shoving them into his mouth.

Alex smiled. Easy camaraderie like this? He’d never known it before. And he’d sit through a thousand sisterly arguments to keep feeling like he was a part of the kinship in the room.

Eliza came back with several bowls of microwave popcorn, grumbling about something. Alex thought he caught the words _unfair_ and _can’t help it if_ and he saw Phil and Sybil smirking at each other.

“Alright,” she said, “let’s get this started.”

Angelica smirked, turning the lights off, and the movie on.

That’s when things went downhill.

It all started out fine, sure, Alex paying little attention to the opening scenes, instead hyper aware of Eliza, who had settled next to him on the couch, her face illuminated by the gentle glow of the screen. He watched her as she watched the movie, mumbling something every once and a while about Angelica’s stupid movie taste even as she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. The cute way her face scrunched up when she yawned.

But then…

Then there was a scene where the blonde actress had come home from abroad, and she was sick, standing in the kitchen as her husband looked on in concern. There was the part where she collapsed, and convulsed and there was a little boy standing in the doorway looking on with wide eyes and then the hospital, and then the husband standing there with his eyes wide and saying, “I just saw her,” and Alex _couldn’t_ do it anymore, he just _couldn’t_.

He stood up suddenly, and Eliza must have seen _something_ on his face in the low light of the television, and she said, “Alex, are you alright?”

“What?” he said, then he shook his head, forced out a laugh, “yeah, I’m fine,” he said, quickly stretching and sitting back down, “Just trying to wake myself up. This movie’s putting me to sleep, Angie.”

“If any of you call me Angie again I am kicking you out of my house, I don’t care what time it is,” Angelica grumbled sinking farther down into her spot on the couch, and the kids laughed.

Alex sat still for the rest of the movie, staring at the screen but not seeing it, just clenching his fists and his teeth and  biding his time until it was over and they could go to sleep. And sure enough, Angelica hadn’t quite done a good enough job picking out a movie scary enough to keep them awake, because before the credits rolled, half the kids in the room were already dozing off.

And after that they didn’t bother with anymore movies. The film shut off and Alexander sat, pretending he was asleep, listening to the hushed conversation of those that were still awake until his panic subsided, and the subsequent full-body exhaustion led him into a fitful sleep on the Schuylers’ basement couch.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Alexander jerked awake in the dark of an unfamiliar room, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath quick and loud in the stillness, his brain muddled, filled with mile-a-minute thoughts of _where are you, where’s mámá, help help help help help_ , and the image of Alex’s mother tossing and turning, sick in bed, hot and delirious with fever, and then cold, _cold, cold, so cold_.

He breathed.

Breathed.

Breathed.

The Schuylers.

The Schuylers’ basement. The leather couch. Nate, just a foot or so away, snoring lightly in sleep.

The movie.

It was just a dream.

A dream, a dream, nothing else. It was only a dream. Alex wasn’t sick, Alex wasn’t dying. No one was dying.

His mother was already dead.

His whole body shaking, Alex pulled himself up off the couch, careful not to disturb his friends, stepping carefully over the snacks and pillows and people strewn haphazardly over the floor of the Schuylers’ basement, and he walked away from the group of kids asleep, and he didn’t know what time it was or where he was going and he felt cold despite his thick hoodie and sweatpants, and his whole body was shaking and his mouth was dry.

He’d just go get a drink of water. Just something to drink, and that would be fine. Nobody would mind. Peggy and her friends were upstairs… but were they upstairs or _upstairs_ upstairs… it didn’t matter. Just a quick trip to the kitchen. That’s all he’d need. Just a minute. It would be fine.

He snuck up the stairs. Years in foster homes that he’d hated and nights of sneaking out and running away had taught him how to read a floor, how to step lightly and freeze at the slightest sound. He moved slowly, so slowly. Sometimes trips like this could take him a half hour. But it didn’t matter. It gave him time to calm down, gave his brain something to do instead of replaying that image over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and _over and over and over and over and –_

 _Get it together, Hamilton._ He gritted his teeth and shook his head and took one long, ragged breath and kept moving up the stairs.

He came out in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room and the light of the kitchen made it easy to see where he was going as he –

 _The light in the kitchen_.

Alex didn’t notice until it was too late, and he was already standing in the door in full view, that the kitchen was already occupied.

By none other than the youngest Schuyler sister, her curly hair a little frizzed from sleep, her yellow pajamas looking both warm and somehow sickly in the light of the kitchen; she was sitting at the island, staring off into the distance, her hand curled around a tall glass of what looked, to Alex, like chocolate milk.

Alex didn’t say anything, didn’t move, unsure of what to say. He considered going back downstairs, now that his mind was a little clearer he didn’t know why he didn’t just go to the bathroom and get a drink from the faucet. He stood, and looked at the youngest Schuyler, all alone in the kitchen and with a look on her face that he knew he’d seen on her before but had never taken notice of. He just stood there staring until Peggy’s eyes drifted over to his direction.

She gasped, nearly knocked over her milk, catching it before the glass clattered to the countertop, but not before the liquid spilled out onto the shiny granite surface. Alex lurched forward, as though to catch the glass, though he was too far away to do any good and there was no real need, he _knew_ that, but all the same he reached out and then his eyes met Peggy’s and the two of them resumed staring, this time at each other.

It felt like a long, long moment before a bit of milk dripped off her side of the counter, and assumedly onto her, because she looked down and muttered, “shit,” and went to get some paper towels.

Alex moved closer to the counter, but a part of him wasn’t sure what to do, and so he stood, and Peggy wiped up the milk, and threw away the towels, and looked at him.

And then she looked at the floor.

Alex had never been alone with the youngest Schuyler sister before, and here, in this moment, in the dark silence of the early morning that never quite seemed real, he realized that he didn’t know a thing about her.

“I’m sorry,” is what he finally came up with, the words tumbling out of his mouth before they’d asked his brain, “I didn’t know you’d be in here.”

The girl looked at him in something like surprise. “It’s my _house_ ,” she whispered, her eyes wide even while her tone was blank.

“Well yes,” he murmured back, “but it’s also –” a quick glance at the clock, “three forty A.M.”

Peggy just looked down again. “I suppose that’s fair.” She looked back at her now-nearly-empty glass on the counter and sighed, opening the fridge and pulling out a gallon of milk in a plastic jug and a bottle of chocolate syrup. She picked up a small spoon from the sink, squeezed the chocolate syrup in her glass, and as she was pouring the milk she spoke, very quietly.

“What did you come up here for?”

Alex blinked, looked at her. She didn’t look at him. She set the milk down and looked at her spoon. She didn’t say anything else, but Alex was smart enough to know an invitation when he heard one. He moved closer, put his arms on the back of the tall chair next to hers. “A glass of water,” he said, looking at the countertop, counting the little flakes of something sparkly in its surface.

“I can do you one better,” Peggy said quietly, not exactly smiling, but sliding the milk and syrup in front of him. Alex stopped counting, looked at her. She looked back with big, brown, eyes filled with… something. Alex noticed she still had makeup on. She hadn’t taken it off when she and her friends went to bed. The eye stuff was messed up a little now, a little bit of black-gray spread haphazardly around her eyes, and, strangely, one streak on her cheek.

He pulled out the chair, careful not to let it scrape on the floor, and sat down.

Peggy went to a cabinet and drawer and got him a spoon and a glass, as he didn’t know where the Schuylers’ kept them. She placed them in front of him and slid into her own chair. Alex began to open the milk.

“No,” she interrupted. “Chocolate first. It makes the mixing much easier.”

Alex nodded, went about it, pouring and mixing until he raised the glass to his lips. The milk was smooth and cool, and Peggy was right, something about it calmed him, something about it comforted him, until he felt his heart rate slow a little and his body sag, and his eyelids get ever so slightly heavier.

Peggy walked over to the light switch and turned off the bright overhead lights, plunging them into a darkness that seemed truly terrifying for a second before she switched on the light over the stove. It gave the room a softer glow, the difference between a lamp and full light.

“You couldn’t sleep?” he heard her say as she sat back in her chair.

Alex shook his head, swallowed thickly. “Nightmare,” he choked out, his throat momentarily dry before he downed another sip of milk.

“Oh.” Peggy was quiet for a second. “I’m sorry. That shit sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said, hurriedly, and Alex had half a mind to say _of course I don’t I don’t even know you_ , and Peggy stirred her drink for a nervous moment, the spoon somehow never hitting the sides of the glass, and Alex thought about the silent way she moved and it occurred to him –

“You’ve done this before. Lots of times. You’re practiced at it.”

She looked at the counter, her face unreadable.

“I have a hard time sleeping,” she said, and didn’t say anything else. They sat in silence, heavy, oppressive silence.

So Alex spoke.

He spoke quickly, hurried, and quiet, barely audible even.

“My mom died two years ago, I guess almost three now and – you know that, of _course_ you know that you _know_ I’m a foster kid – and she – she got sick. She and I both got sick and we didn’t have money for the doctor, and we couldn’t go get medicine or anything and I – I don’t know what it was about me, or her, or – I just – it was after my dad left of course, and I – we just _laid_ there, the two of us, and it was so cold, I remember I was freezing, and I thought she was so warm, and then one day, I just… I woke up and she… she wasn’t warm anymore, and I –” his breathing was quick and heavy again and he gasped for air.

And Peggy put her hands on his and pressed them against his glass, the cool, cool curvature of the glass, and the tiny, wavy imperfections that he could feel under his fingers, and she squeezed his hands against it.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Alex always thought the way kids said they were sorry was different than adults. Adults said it like they knew they were supposed to, like they had to. With kids… they’d say it, but they’d really be sorry. Or if they didn’t think it, they wouldn’t say it half as much. They’d say nothing. “My mom is dead, too.”

It was abrupt, but Alex couldn’t say he was surprised. He’d never once heard the Schuyler sisters mention their mother. Nor had the Washingtons for that matter. Alex had figured that something had happened, he’d just never asked.

He didn’t say he was sorry. He wasn’t sure that he was. Until just tonight, the youngest Schuyler sister had been something of an enigma, a background character. The two of them didn’t speak, didn’t interact. Alex spent every day practically worshipping at the feet of her older sisters, battling Angelica’s wits, listening, rapt, to every word that passed Eliza’s lips, hanging on her every smile, but he had never so much as given Peggy the time of day.

And he realized that now, sitting with the youngest Schuyler sister in her kitchen, drinking chocolate milk out of a tall glass and… and talking about their dead moms.

“It wasn’t like I knew her or anything,” Peggy whispered, looking down at the counter again. “She died from… you know…” she waved one hand vaguely, “complications with having me. So it’s not like I’ve got anything to _miss_ , really, just…” she breathed deeply, “just this sort of… absence.”

Alex didn’t know what to say to that, so he just looked down too, and said, “yeah.”

“And I mean,” she rushed on, words spilling out of her, low in the quiet of the kitchen, “Angelica and Eliza and I… we’re all one year apart, so it’s not like they’ve got anything to miss either, Angie was like two when I was born, she doesn’t remember mom, she’s _said_ she doesn’t, all our lives it’s just been us and dad, but I just… sometimes I think about the first time that she or Eliza realized that other kids _have_ _moms_ , and – and asked why we didn’t, and had to hear that it was _my fault_.”

And Alex looked up at that. He looked up and looked right at the youngest Schuyler sister with her hundred friends who have never seen her without her makeup on, and her sisters and her sisters’ friends, all of whom never paid her a scrap of attention. _Peggy_ , who maybe thinks her mother’s death is legitimately _her fault_ , has maybe gone her whole life thinking it was her fault, even though she was a _baby_ , and there was nothing she could do, but has maybe gone her whole life with that weight on her shoulders, and _fuck_ , maybe Alex doesn’t know what that feels like, but the last two years have given him something like a pretty good idea.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, and Alex realized abruptly that she was _crying_ , bent over the counter with her breaths coming shallower than before, “I’m sorry that was so much I didn’t mean to –”

“No,” he cut in quickly, “no, it’s not, _I understand,_ I –” for a moment he didn’t know what to say at all and Peggy looked at him with tears in her eyes, and he quieted down, took a deep breath. “I get it. I get it, really. I got sick first, I got her sick and it _killed_ her, I –” for a minute, he just looked at Peggy, and she looked back, “I get it.”

She took a long, shuddering breath, ran a hand over her face. Her makeup was running. “Fuck, we’re fucked up, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Alex choked out, a sort of deranged not quite smile breaking out on his face, he could feel it, and maybe it was exhaustion and maybe it was relief but it was _something_. “Yeah, we kinda are.”

It didn’t fix anything, Alex knew that. Four AM confessions in a dark kitchen didn’t fix anything. But maybe it helped. And maybe that was why Peggy kept talking. “It’s just… they’re so _close_. And _everyone_ just _looks_ at them like…” she trailed off. “It’s never been that way with me.”

Alex didn’t have to ask who she was talking about.

“You should talk to them about it. Or your dad maybe, I –” she looked at him, considering. “I don’t think your family is trying to shut you out. I don’t think they would do that.”

Not that he would know. Fuck he’d been a part of the Schuylers life for not even two months, he didn’t know shit about their family dynamic. And talking, Jesus. Alex had never been in a place where he’d suggest sitting down and _talking_ as a real solution to a problem, and for a moment, just a moment, he was absolutely terrified of what the last three months with the Washingtons had done to him.

“I don’t know,” Peggy finally said, breaking the oppressive silence. “I know that they’d never… not intentionally. I just… it would feel weird broaching that subject now, you know? It’s been like this forever. We’ve been like this forever.”

“Yeah,” Alex replied, and he didn’t know where to look or what to do and his skin was crawling a little. And he thought that this conversation felt miles away from what he was going for when he came sneaking up the basement stairs in the wee hours of the morning in the Schuylers’ house.

“Finish your milk,” Peggy said quietly, nodding toward his glass, “my father gets up early. We should…” She didn’t finish. Her own glass was empty, and Alex drank, the liquid warmer from his hands, from the room, but no less comforting, and he felt a certain tiredness sneak into his body, a weariness in his bones that wasn’t there before. He savored the tiny bit of grittiness at the bottom of the glass, the over-saturated taste of the chocolate that settled out while he was sitting there, baring his soul to a thirteen year-old. It was sharp, focused. Early in the morning it was easy to forget who you were, and Alex held on to every scrap of observation, of sensation, and felt alive.

Peggy slid out of her chair, grabbed her glass, Alex’s glass, the spoons, and put them in the dishwasher, her movements slow and deliberate and silent as a cat. The chocolate was put away, and the milk, and then she was next to him, looking at him nervously before reaching out and grabbing his hand, squeezing ever so quickly. She jerked, all of a sudden, went to turn off the light over the stove, and Alex stood, stock still, as she walked silently past him to the doorway that would lead her back into the hallway and upstairs.

He was sure she was gone when he heard the voice.

“You know, I was wrong about you, Hamilton. I see what they see in you now.” And Alex, for the umpteenth time that night, didn’t know what to say. And Peggy said, she said –

“Thank you.”

And then she was gone, no other indicator that she had left the room except for a near-imperceptible stillness in the air.

And Alex exhaled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that little Schuyler-centric celebration. Who would've guessed that this fic would get up to 13 chapters without the intended plot point even making an appearance! Alas, family fluff will only get us so far, my lovelies, and plot is quickly approaching. Stay tuned.  
> On a second note, I apologize with everything I have for my impromptu four month hiatus on this fic. I'm trying to get back into it, and I hope you all have maintained enough patience and/or interest to stick with me. At all times, my lovelies, I endeavor not to let you down.  
> Also, I was thinking of making a few edits to previous chapters, having gone back and read some of the older writing recently, and if I do make any changes, I'll be sure to let all of you know :) (it will mostly just be for the sake of continuity, I've caught a few mistakes.)  
> As always, comments and kudos are so appreciated! Let me know your predictions for upcoming chapters if so inclined, or anything else you'd like to say!   
> Until next time, I am,   
> Your Desiree <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read! Leave a kudos or a comment if you liked it, and it'll make my day! I'm not sure quite yet how quickly I'll be updating, but I have big plans for this series ;)  
> My tumblr is @desiree-harding, come talk to me about this fic/series for headcanons and more!  
> Many thanks to my beta, Taylor (@memeryandmusicals) because I would publish nothing without her  
> Until next time my lovelies,  
> Desiree <3


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